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ii7»oa. i>oi;nr,K NDniBEie. 


By MRS. OLIPHANT, 


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A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE TWO FAMILIES. 

The house of Pentoii is one of the greatest in the county 
of which it is an ornament. It is an old house, but not of 
the kind which is now so generally appreciated and admired. 
It is not Elizabethan nor Jacobean, nor of the reign of 
Queen Anne. The front is Grecian, or rather Palladian, in 
heavy stone supplemented by plaster, with the balustrades 
of a stony terrace surmounting the level frontage of the 
single story, lofty, yet flat, which stretches like a screen 
across the higher cluster of building which forms the body 
of the house. When you turn the corner from this some- 
what blank and low but imposing line you come upon the 
garden-front, which is of the livelier French order of archi- 
tecture, with long windows, and many of them. The gar- 
dens are the pride of the house. These are arranged in 
terraces and parterres, brilliant with flowers, and there is 
even an elaborate system of water- works, a little out of order 
now, and a few statues here and there, half covered with 
lichens, yet not unworthy of better preservation. The 
rooms inside are lofty and sumptuous, intended for great 
entertainments and fine company, but the gardens are such 
as Watteau would have delighted in, and which he might 
have made the scene of manya/efe cliampUre and graceful 
group of fine ladies and fine gentlemen in costumes more 
brilliant than are now thought of. The grounds at Penton, 
indeed, are still filled at times with parties of gayly dressed 
people, and the lawns brightened by maidens in musli)! 
and young men in flannels; but Watteau would have htid 
no sympathy with the activities of lawn-tennis. That po])- 
ular game, however, was not pursued with any enthusiasm 


6 


A POOR GEKTLEMAN. 


at Penton. It was permitted rather than encouraged. 
There was no youth in the house. Sir Walter Penton was 
an old man, and though he had, like most old gentlemen 
who figure in romance, an only daughter, she was not either 
young or fair. She was a lady of somewhat stern aspect, 
between forty and fifty, married, but childless. The house- 
hold consisted of her father, her husband, and herself, no 
more. And there were many circuihstances which com- 
bined to make it anything but a cheerful house. 

Three or four miles from Penton, but on a lower level, 
lay the house of Penton Hook. It was on the banks of the 
river, planted on a piece of land which was almost an island 
in consequence of the curve of the stream which swept 
round it. The great house stood high on the brow of the 
bank, an object seen many miles off, and which was the 
distinguishing feature of the landscape. The smaller one 
— so small that it was scarcely worthy to be called ai coun- 
try-place at all — lay low. When the river was in flood, 
which happened almost every winter, Penton Hook stood 
dismally, with all its little gardens under water, in what 
seemed the middle of the stream. And though the Pen- 
tons all protested that the water never actually came into 
the house, which was raised on a little terrace, their protest 
Avas received by all their neighbors with shaking of their- 
heads. Everything was green and luxuriant, as may be 
supposed. The house was so covered with creepers that its 
style was undefinable. A little glimmer of old red brick, 
delightfully toned and mellowed, looked out here and there 
from amid the clusters of feathery seed-pods on the clem- 
atis, and below the branches of the gloire de Dijon in 
winter. In the brighter part of the year it was a mass of 
leaf and flower; but during all the dark season, when the 
water was up, when the skies were dark, damp and dreari- 
ness were the characteristics of Penton Hook. The rooms 
looked damp, there was a moist look about the tiles in the 
little hall. The paper was apt to peel off and the plaster to 
fall. There were many people who declared that the house 
was a very fever-trap, and everybody was of opinion that it 
must be unhealthy. It ought to have been so, indeed, by 
every rule of sanitary science. A kind Providence alone 
took care of the drainage. Mr. Penton did not know much 
about it, and took care not to inquire; for had he inquired 
it would probably have been necessary to do something, and 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


r 


he had no money to spend on such vanities. Neither, in- 
deed, did there seem much occasion, for, notwithstanding 
what everybody said, eight young Fentons, tall and straight,, 
and ailing nothing, with appetites which were the despair 
of their mother, grew up and flourished among the mud and 
damp, and set all prognostications at defiance. 

Nothing could be more unlike than the two families who 
bore the same name, and lived within sight of each other. 
The one all gravity and importance and severe splendor; 
the other poor, irregular, noisy, full of shifts and devices, 
full of tumult and young life. Mrs. Fenton, Sir Walter’s 
daughter (for her husband, who was nobody in particular, 
had taken her name), went from time to time with the 
housekeeper through the ranges of vacant rooms, ail fur- 
nished with a sort of somber magnificence, to see that they 
w^ere aired and kept in order; while her namesake at the 
Hook (as it was called) schemed how to fit a bed into a new 
corner, as the boys and girls grew bigger, to make room 
for their lengthening limbs and the decorums which ad- 
vancing years demanded. It was difficult to kill time in 
the one house, and almost impossible to find one day long 
enough for all the work that had to be done in it, in the 
other. In the one the question of ways and means was a 
subject unnecessary to be discussed. The exchequer was 
full, there were no calJs upon it which could not be amply 
met at any moment, nor any occasion to think whether or 
not a new exjiense should be incurred. Mr. Eussell Fenton,, 
prehaps, the husband of Mrs. Fenton, had not always been 
in this happy condition. It was possible that in his experi- 
ence a less comfortable state of affairs might have existed,, 
or even might still, by moments, exist; but so far as the 
knowledge of Sir Walter and his daughter went, it was 
only mismanagement, extravagance, or want of financial 
capacity which made anybody poor; they could not under- 
stand why their relations at the Hook should be needy and 
embarrassed. 

So long as one knows exactly what one’s means are,” 
said Mrs. Fenton, ‘‘ what difficulty can there be in arrang- 
ing one’s expenditure? There are certain things which, 
can, and certain tilings which can’t be done on a certaiifi in- 
come. All that is necessary is to arrange one’s outgoings 
accordingly.” 

You see that, my dear, ” Sir Waiter would reply, for 


8 


A POOIi C4EXTLEMAX. 


you were born with the spirit of order; but there are some 
people who have no sense of order at all/^ 

The some people were the poor people at Penton Hook. 
These remarks were made on a day in winter, when the 
family at the great house were together in the library. It 
was a very comfortable room, nay, a beautiful one. The 
lionse was warmed throughout, and in December was 
genially, softly, warm as in May, no cold to be got anywhere 
in corridors or staircases. The fire in the library was a 
wood-fire, for beauty and pleasantness rather than for 
warmth. The walls were lined with books, dim lines of 
carved shelves witii gleams of old gilding, and an occasional 
W'arm tone of mellowed Italian vellum here and there giv- 
ing them a delightful covering. The large window looked 
across the country, commanding the whole broad plain 
through which the river ran. This landscape fell away 
into lovely tones of distance, making you uncertain whether 
it was the sea or infinitude itself at which you were gazing, 
in far-away stretches of tender mist, and blueness and dim- 
ness, lightly marked with the line of the horizon. Over the 
mantel-piece there was one iDicture, the portrait of an an- 
cestor of whom the Fentons were proud — a veritable Hol- 
bein, which was as good, nay, far better, than the most 
finely emblazoned family jDedigree. There was no room 
for other pictures because of the books which filled every 
corner; but a port-folio stood open upon a stand in which 
there was a quantity of thefinesirold engravings, chiefly 
historical portraits. Amid this refined and delightful lux- 
ury it would be foolish to mention the mere furniture, 
though that was carved oak, and very fine of its kind. Sir 
Walter himself sat surrounded by all the morning papers, 
which, as Penton was not very far from town, were delivered 
almost as early as in London. Mrs. Penton had a little 
settlement of her own between the fire and one of the win- 
dows, where she made up her household accounts, which 
she did with the greatest regularity. Mr. Kussell Penton 
was the only member of the little party wdio seemed at 
all out of place. He had no special corner which he made 
his own. He was a restless personage, prone to w^ander 
from the fire to the window, to look out though there was 
nothing particular to look at, nothing more than he saw 
every day oPhis life, as his wife sometimes said to him. He 
ran over the 23apers very quickly, very often standing be- 


A POOR CtENTLEMAI^. 


9 


fore the fire, which was a favorite trick of his; and after he 
had got through that morning duty he would lounge about 
disturbing everybody— that is, disturbing Mrs. Penton and 
8ir Walter, who were the only people subject to be affected 
by his vagaries, lie never had letters to write, though this 
is one of the first duties of man, of the kind of man who 
has nothing else to do. A man who has no letters to write 
should at least pretend to do so, assuming a virtue if he has 
it not, in the leisure of a country house; or he should have 
some study, if it were only the amount of the rainfall; or 
he should draw and expound art. But none of all these 
things did Mr. Kussell Penton do. And he had not the 
art of doing nothing quietly and gracefully as some men 
have. He was restless, as w^ell as idle, a combination which 
is more trying to the peace of your house-mates than any^ 
other can be. 

Sir Walter was essentially well-bred, and the carpets 
were very thick, and the paneling of the floors very solid; 
but yet there is always a certain thrill under a restless foot, 
however steady the flooring is and however thick the carpet: 
and Mrs. Penton could not help seeing that her father now 
and then stopped in his reading and fixed his eyes and con- 
tracted his eyebrows with a consciousness of the movement. 
But after all it is difficult to find fault with one^s husband 
for nothing more serious than walking from the fire to the 
window and from the window back to the fire. 

Yet ic was this rather detrimental and unmeaning per- 
sonage who chose suddenly, without any reason at all, to 
cross the current of family feeling. The spirit of order 
is a very good thing, he said, all at once, making his wife 
hold her breath, but, in my opinion, when you have a 
large family a little money is still better. This speecli 
was launched into the domestic, quiet like an arrow from a 
bow. 

‘‘ Better said Sir Walter, letting his newspaper drop 
upon his knees, and pushing up his spectacles upon his 
forehead the better to see the speaker, who was standing, 
shutting out the pleasant blaze of the log on the fire in his 
usual careless way. 

‘‘ Gerald means, said his wife, that it is easier to keep 
things in order when there is money, 1 have heard people 
say so before, and perhaps it is true — to a certain extent. 
You know, sir, that when one has money in hand one can 


10 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 


buy a tiling when it is cheap; one can la}" in one^s provis- 
ions beforehand. The idea is not original, but there is a 
cert^iin amount of truth in it, I dare say.^^ 

No one supposed there was not truth in it, said Sir 
Walter; for that matter there is truth in everything, the 
most paradoxical statement you may choose to make; but 
these people are not without money, I suppose. Thdy have 
an income, whatever the amount may be. They are not 
•destitute. And so long as you have certain means, as you 
were yourself saying, Alicia, you know what you can afford 
to spend, and that is what you ought to spend by every 
law, and not a penny more/ ^ 

Nothing could be more true,^^ said Mrs. Penton, With 
a look from under her eyelids to Jier husband, who was 
fidgeting from one leg to another, restless as usual; and 
speaking of that,^^ she said, with curious appropriateness, 
I have been anxious to ask you, papa, about the tapestry 
chamber, of which, you know, we have always been so 
proud. Mrs. Ellis and I have made a very odd discovery 
— the moth has got into one of the best pieces. We have 
done all we could, and I think we have arrested the mis- 
chief, but to put it right is beyond our powers. 

Dear me! the tapestry!^/ cried Sir Walter; ‘^thaPs 
serious indeed — the moth! I should think you might have 
done something, you and all your women, Alicia, to keep 
out a moth.^^ 

One would think so, indeed, she said, with a smile, 
but it is not so easy as it seems. It is an insidious little 
creature, which gets in imperceptibly. One only discovers 
it when the mischief is done. Gerald, who is so very clever 
in such matters, thinks we had better get a man over from 
Paris, from the Gobelins. It would be a good deal of 
trouble, but still it is the best way. 

“ I was not aware that Gerald knew anything about such 
matters,^^ said Sir Walter. As for the trouble, it is only 

w’riting a letter, I suppose. But do it, do it. I can not 
have anytliing happen to my tapestry. A man from Paris 
will be a nuisance — theyT’e alwa^^s a nuisance, those sort of 
fellows— but get it done, get it done.^^ 

I will write at once,^^ Mrs. Penton said. 

I remember that tapestry as long as I remember any- 
thing, said the old gentleman, musing. In the fire- 
light we used to think the figures moved. It used to be 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


II 


my. mot];Hf^s room. How frightened I was, to be sure! 
Oae " I recollect, the hunters and the hounds seemed 
ail coming down upon us. There, was a blazing fii^e, and 
' it was the dancing of the flames, donT you know? I was 
no bigger than that, he said, putting his hand about a 
- foot from the ground. The recollection of his infancj 
pleased the old man. He smiled, and the expression of his 
face softened. There was nothing cruel or unkind in his 
aspect. He was a little rigid, a little severe, very sure that 
he was right, as so many are; but when he thought of his 
mother^s room, and himself a little child in it, his ruddy 
aged countenance grew soft. Had there been another little 
child there, to climb upon his knee, it would have melted 
altogether. But Providence had not granted that other lit- 
tle child. He gave a wave of his hand as he dismissed these 
gentle thoughts. But get the man from Paris, my dear; 
donT let anything go wrong with the tapestry, he said. 

Mr. Russell Penton went out as his wife turned to her 
writing-table, and at once began her necessary letter. It 
was true that it was he who recommended that a man from 
Paris should be procured, but he had done it without any 
of that cleverness in such matters which his wife attributed 
to him. He was not, perhaps, a man entirely adapted for 
the position in which he found himself. He had occupied 
it for a long time, and yet he had not yet reconciled him- 
self to that constant effort on his wife^s part to make him 
agreeable to her father. 

For his own part he had no desire to be disagreeable to 
Sir Walter or any man; he had . married with a generous 
affection if not any hot romantic love for Alicia; for they 
were both, he thought, beyond the age of romantic love. 
She had been thirty-five, very mature, very certain of her- 
self; while he, though a little older and a man wno had, as 
people say, knocked about the world for a long time, and 
undergone many vicissitudes, was not at all so sure. She 
had picked him up out of — not the depths, perhaps — but 
out of an uncomfortable, unsettled, floating condition, be- 
tween gentility and beggary; and had taken him into the 
warmest delightful house, and made everything comforta- 
ble for him. He had been very willing to make himself 
agreeable, to do what he could for the people who had done 
so much for him, and yet so unreasonable was he that he 
had never been able quite to reconcile himself to the posi- 


2 


A POOrt GEXTLEMAis^ 


tion. lie could scarcely endure those warning gknces not 
to go too far, not to say this or that, or her pretenses of 
consulting him, of being guided by his counsels, the little 
speeches, such as had been made to-day, about Gerald being 
so cles^er — which was his wifek way of upholding her hus- 
band. He was not clever, and he did not wish to pretend 
to be so. He was not cautious, and he could not take the 
credit of it. He had been thought to be a fortune-hunter 
when he married, and he was supposed to be a time-server 
now; and yet he was neither one thing nor the other. He 
w^as fond of Alicia and he liked Sir Walter well enough; yet 
there were moments when he would rather have swept a 
crossing than lived in wealth and luxury at Penton, and 
when the sacrifices which he had to make, and the advan- 
tages which he gained in return, were odious to him, things 
which he could scarcely bind himself to bear. 

This was perhaps the reason why, as he went out, with- 
out anything to do or to think of, and lookiitg across that 
wide, bare, yet bright, wintery landscape, losing itself in the 
wistful distance, caught the chimneys of Penton Hook ap- 
pearing among the bare trees, there occurred to his mind 
a contrast and comparison which made his sensations still 
less agreeable. It was nobody ^s fault, certainly not his, 
not even Sir Walter % that the Pentons^ at the Hook were 
so poor, that there were eight children of them, that it w^as 
so difficult for the parents to make both ends meet. Could 
Sir Walter have changed the decrees of Providence by any 
effort in his power, it w^as he who should have had those 
eight sturdy descendants. He would have accepted all 
the responsibilities gladly; he would have secured for those 
young people the best of everything, an excellent educa- 
tion, and all the advantages that wealth could give. But 
the children had gone wdiere poverty, not riches was; and 
to Sir Walter and Alicia it was a w^ouder that their par- 
ents could not keep within their income, that they could 
not ciit their coat according to their cloth, as it is the duty 
of all honest and honorable persons to do. Alicia in j^gr- 
ticular was so very clear on this point; and then she had 
turned to her table, and written her letter, and ordered 
the man to be sent from Paris from the great Gobelins 
manufactory to mend the damages made by the moths in 
the old tapestry! How strange it wuxs! iKissell Penton 
could not tell what was wrong in it. Perhaps there was no 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


13 


conscious wrong. They had a right to have tlieir tapestry 
mended^ and it was pretty, he could not but confess;, to see 
the old. man forget himself and talk of the time when he 
was a child. What ^vas that about a treasure which rust 
or moth could not corrupt? It kept haunting his ear, yet 
it was not applicable to the situatioii. It would be a thou- 
sand pities to let the tapestry be. spoiled. And as for tak- 
ing upon his shoulders the burden of Mr. Penton^s large 
family, no one could expect old Sir Walter to do that. 
What was wrong in it? And, on the other hand, he could 
uot find it in his heart to blame the poor peoj)le at the 
Hook who had so many cares, so much to do with their 
income, so many mouths to feed. It was not their fault, 
nor was it the fault of Alicia and her father. And yet the 
heart of the man, who was little more than a looker-on, 
w^as sore. He could do nothing. He could not even find 
any satisfaction in Dlaming one or the other: for, so far 
as he could see, nobody was to blame. 


CHAPTEPt IL 

FENTON. 

. The family at Penton had not always been so few in num- 
ber. Twenty years before the opening of this history there 
were two sons in the great house; and Alicia, now so im- 
portant, was, though always a sort of princess royal, by no 
means so great a personage as now. She was the only 
daughter of the house, but no more; destined apparently, 
like other daughters, to pass away into a different family 
and identify herself with another name, ddie two brothers 
were the representatives of the P'entons. They were hope- 
ful enough in their youth — healthy, vigorous, not more 
foolish than young men of their age, with 2ff^3Rfcy of money 
and nothing to do; and it was a surprise to everybody when, 
one after the other, they took the wrong turn in that flov- 
ery way of temptation, so smooth to begin with, so thorny 
at the e.nd, which is vulgarly termed ‘Mife. Xo such 
fatal divergence was expected of them when Walter came 
of age, and all the neighborhood was called together to re- 
joice. They were both younger than their sister, who was 
already the mistress of the house, and a very dignified and 
stately young lady, at this joyful period. Their mother 


14 


A POOK GENTLEMAN-. 


had died young, and Sir Walter was older tl . . ^ r. o , 

of such a family generally is. He had, pe^ ■ 
ficient sympathy with the exuberance of the^ : v- 

haps the quiet which he loved, the gravity ot his house, 
repelled them and led them to form their friendships and seek 
their pleasures elsewhere. At all events, the young Pen- 
tons went wrong, both of them, one after the other. 
Edward Pen ton, of the Hook, a young relation of no im- 
portance whatever, was much about the house in those 
days. He was the son of Sir Walters’s cousin, who had in- 
herited the house at Penton Hook from some old aunts, 
maiden sisters of a far-back baronet, so that the relation- 
ship was not very close. But the bonds of kindred are very 
elastic, and count for much or for nothing, as inclination 
and opportunity dictate. Edward was much more about 
the house of Penton than was at all for his good. He fell 
ill love with Alicia for one thing, who naturally would have 
nothing to say to her poor relation; and, what was still 
worse, he was swept away by Walter and Eeginald in the 
course of their dissipated career into many extravagances 
and follies. They drew him aside in their train from all 
the sober studies which ought to have ended in a profession ; 
they taught him careless ways, and the recklessness which 
may be pardonable in a rich man’s son, but is crime in the 
poor. It is true that there was something in him — some 
gleam of higher principle or character, or perhaps only the 
passive resistance of a calmer nature, which held him back 
from following them to the bitter end of their foolish ca- 
reer; but all the same they did him harm — harm which he 
never got the better of, though it stopped short of misery 
and ruin. They themselves did not stop short of anything. 
There are some sins like those which made the heart of tire 
Psalmist burn within him — sins which seem to go unpun- 
ished, and in the midst of which the wicked appear to 
flourish like a green bay-tree. And there are some which 
carry their own sentence with them, and in which the venge- 
ance does not tarry. Even in the latter case ruin comes 
more slowly to the rich than to the poor. They have more 
places of repentance, more time to think, more possibility, 
if a better impulse comes to them, of redeeming the past; 
but yet, in the end, few escape who embark their hopes 
and prosperity on such a wild career. 

There were ten years in the history of the Penton house- 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


w 


hold of wliicli the sufferings and the misery could not be' 
told. Sir Walter and his daughter lived on in their beauti- 
ful house and watched the headlong career toward destriic-' 
tion of these two beloved boys, (still called so long after they 
had become men) with anxiety and anguish and despair | 
which is not to be told. There are few families who do^ ^ 
not know something of that anguish. Of all the miseries ^ 
to which men and women are liable there is none so terri- 
ble. In every other there is some alleviation, some gleam 1 
of comfort, but in this none. The father grew old in the, 
ju'ogress of these terrible years, and the proud Miss Pen- 
ton, the handsome, stately young woman, who looked, the 
neighbors said, ‘‘ as if all the world belonged to her, "'' 
grew old too, before her time, and changed and paled, and' 
turned to stone. ISlot that her heart was turned to stone 
— on the contrary, it was a fountain of tears; it was a well 
of tenderness unfailing; it was the heart of a mother, con- 
oentrated upon those objects of her love for whom she 
oould do nothing, who were perishing before her eyes. The 
Pentons w^ere proud people, and they kept up appearances; 
they entertained more or less, whatever happened. They 
had parties of visitors in their house; they kept up tlie old- 
fashioned hospitality, and all that their position exacted, 
and never betrayed to the world the agonized watch they 
were keeping, as from a watch-tower, upon the proceed- 
ings of the young men who would have none of their coun- 
sel, and who returned more and more rarely, and then only 
when help, or nursing, or succor of some sort was wanted, 
to their home. Latterly, under the excuse of Sir Walter"s 
health, there was a certain withdrawal from the world, and 
the father and daughter accomplished their miserable vigil 
with less intrusion of a watchful neighborhood. First Eeg- 
inald and then Walter came home to die,- Death is kind; 
he sheds a light upon the wasted face even when it is sin 
that has wasted it, and wrings the heart of the watchers 
with looks purified by pain, that remind them how the sin- 
ner was once an innocent child. Through all this the fa- 
ther and daughter went together, leaning upon each other, 
yet even to each other saying but little. They were as 
one in their anguish, in their lingering hopes, in the long' 
vigils by these sick-beds, in the unutterable pangs of seeing 
one after another die. Ten years is a long time when it is 
thus told out in misery and pain. Alicia Penton was a 


10 A POOK GENTLEMA^n^ 

woman of thirty' five when she walked behind ;bv 
her last brother to the family burying-groimc . ;’ ‘-' 

' chief mourner^ as she had been chief nurse and ciu : . r 
all through, for Sir Walter had broken down altogether at 
the death-bed of his last boy. 

This double tragedy passed over with little revelation to 
the outside world. Everybody, indeed, knew what lives the 
young men had lived, and how they had died. And people 
pitied the father to whom it must be, they felt, so great a 
disappointment that his baronetcy and his old lands should 
go out of the family, and that in the direct line he should* 
have no heir. If only one of them had married, if there 
had been but a child to carry on the family, the kind 
neighbors said. It was thought that Sir Walter was far 
more proud than tender, and that this would- be his view. 
As for Miss Pen ton, it was believed that she must find 
great consolation in the fact that her position and her im- 
portance would be so much increased. A few years quiet 
(such as was inevitable in their deep mourning) would 
make up for all the sacrifices Sir Walter had made for the 
boys; ancP then Alicia would be a great heiress, notwith- 
standing that a considerable portion of the estate was en- 
tailed. People thought that when she realized this, Alicia 
Pen ton would dry her tears. 

She did not in any case make very much show of her 
tears. Her father and she went on living in the great, si- 
lent house, where now there was not even an echo to be 
listened for, a piece of evil news to be apprehended; where 
all was silent, silent as the grave. She had been courted 
as much as most women in her younger days; she had been 
loved, but she had listened to no -one. Her youth had 
glided away under the shadow of calamity, the shadow 
which had stolen away all beauty and freshness from her 
and made her old before her time, and, lest they should 
express too much, had turned her features to stone. She 
had always been stately, but she was stern now that all 
was over, and there was neither terror for the future nor 
sound of the present to keep her tortured heart alive. 

But naturally, after awhile, these intense emotions, 
which no one suspected, were calmed, and life began again. 
Life began even for Sir Walter, who was nearly seventy, 
much more for his daughter, who was thirty-five. They 
could not die, nor could they darken their windows and 


A POOR GENTLEMAX. 


17 


- t out the suushiiie forever because two poor wrecks, two 
• aal, ruined lives, had come to an end. It must be such 
a relief, people said, even though no doubt it was a grief in 
its way. And though the ending of anxiety in such a way 
seems almost an additional pang, an additional loss to obsth 
nate love, yet after all it is a dismal relief in its blank and 
stillness. And life had to be carried on. When Miss Pen- 
ton, Sir Walters’s only child and heiress, came out of her 
long seclusion there were still men to be found who ad- 
mired, or said they admired her, and who were very eager 
to place themselves at her disposal. Among these was 
Gerald Russell, a man who had once been kind to one of 
‘/the boys,^^ and who was known as the most good-nat- 
ured, the least exacting o^ men. He was poor; he had no 
particular standing of his own to confuse the family ar- 
rangements: and the two liked each other. Truly and 
honestly they liked each other; he had been almost a suitor 
of her youth, kept back, both of them were willing to be- 
lieve, by his poverty. Gerald Russell was not unaware 
that there would be sacrifices to make, that he was accept- 
ing a position not without drawbacks, in which, indeed, 
there might possibly be a good deal to bear. But he had 
not made much of his life hitherto, and he made up his 
mind to risk it. And they married, and he was not unhap- 
2 )y. This was the 23resent 2 )ositiori of affairs. He was not 
unhappy, and -she was more nearly happy than she could 
have been had he not been there. Had “ anything hap- 
])ened,^'’ as the ]Dhrase goes, to him — that is, had he died— 
the world would have become blank to Alicia. Had she 
been the victim Mr. Russell Fenton would have been truly 
grieved, and would have mourned honestly for his wife, 
but the sense of freedom might perhaps Iiave been some- 
thing of a compensation to him. Thus they were not equal 
any more than two human creatures ever are equal. She 
seemed to have the best of it upon the surface of affairs. 
She was the head of the house. Both without and within 
she was the [livot iijpon which everything turned, and he 
was by no means of equal importance; but yet he would 
have been to her a greater loss than she to him, which per- 
haps made the balance equal once more. 

He returned to that question about the tapestry vhen 
they set out, as was their custom in the afternoon, to take 
a walk together. They went through the wood which cov- 


18 


A POOR GENTLKJiAN. 


ered the crest of tlie high river-batik upon which Pentoii 
stood, and which defended the house from the north. 
Everything, it is needless to say, was beautifully kept, the 
w^oodiand paths just wild enough to preserve an aspect of 
nature amid the perfection of foresting and landscape gar- 
dening on the largest scale. Wherever there was a point of 
view the openings were skillfully arranged so as to get its 
finest aspect, and the broad valley, or rather plain, stretched 
out below with village-spires and scattered clusters of houses, 
and a red-roofed town in the distance, with a light veil of 
smoke hanging between it and the sky. The river flowed 
full and strong in its winter volume at their feet, reflecting 
the gray blueness of the heavens, the deeper colors that 
began to blaze about the west, and the gray whiteness of 
the vapors overhead. It was when they had turned, after 
a momentary j^ause at one of these mounts of vision, that 
Russell Pen ton turned suddenly to his wife with a smile. 

Did you send for the man from the Gobelins: he said. 

Yes. What put that into your mind now?'^ 

Nothing; the chimneys atPenton Hook/^ he replied. 

And why the chimneys at Pen ton Hook: Your mind 
jumps from one subject to the other in the strangest w'ay. 
What connection can there be between two things so un- 
like?^^ 

Nothing,^^ he said, with a faint laugh; and yet per- 
haps more than meets the e3"e. There is no great volume 
of smoke rising from those chimne^^s. A faint blue streak 
or so and that is all. It does not look like fire in every 
room or a jolly blaze in the kitchen. 

‘‘ What are you aiming at, Gerald: I think >^ou mean 
mischief. No; probably they have not fires in all the. 
rooms; but what has that to do with us or with the man 
from Paris: I donT follow you,^'' she said. 

“ My dear Alicia, vvhat does it matter? My ways ot 
thinking are jerky, you are aware. If you had as many 
children as poor Mrs. Penton you would have fires in all 
the rooms. 

“ Ah! if — she said, with a sigh; then, in a tone of im- 
patience, “ Poor Mrs. Penton, as you call her, and I — 
would probably not in any circumstances act in the same 
way. 

“ No, because 3"ou are rich Mrs. Penton, my dear. I 
think you were a little hard upon them, upon the duty of 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


19 


Keeping within your income, and all that. I dare say the 
children have blue little hands and cold noses. If they 
were mine they should have fires in their rooms whatever 
my income might be.^^ 

They would have nothing of the sort — that is, if I were 
your wife, Gerald, said Mrs. Penton, with composure. 
She made a little pause, and then added, with a moment- 
arily quickened breath, ‘‘Perhaps under these circnm- 
stances I might not have been so. 

He felt the blow; it was a just one, if not perhaps very 
generous. And if he had been a man of hot temper, or of 
very sensitive feelings, it would have wounded him. Put 
he was pacific and middle-aged, and knew the absolute 
inutility of any quarrel. So he answered quietly, “ As I 
can not conceive myself with any other wife in any circum- 
stances, that is not a possibility we need consider. 

Mrs. Penton^s mind went quickly, though her aspect was 
rigid. She had begged his pardon before these words were 
half said, with a quick rising color, which showed her shame 
of the suggestion she had made. 

“ I was wrong to say it; yet not wrong in what T said. 
If you had been a poor man, Gerald, your wife would have 
known how to cut her coat according to her cloth. 

“ You mean if she had not been a rich woman. It is ill 
judging, they say in Scotland, between a full man and a 
fasting. I liave a proverb, you see, as well as you. You 
were quite right, my dear, to send for that man from the 
Gobelins; but I would say nothing about my poor neigh- 
bors and the coat that is not cut according to the cloth. 

“ If you think I am wrong you should say so plainly, . 
Gerald.'’^ The color still wavered a little upon her cheek 
She was perhaps not so patient even of implied blame as 
she thought she was. “ It is perhaps wrong, she added, 
quickly, “ but I should not wonder if I shared without ^ 
knowing it my father^s feeling about the heir. Oh, you * 
need not say anything; I know it is unreasonable. It is 
not Edward Penton’s fault that he is the next in the entail. 
But human creatures are not always reasonable, and they 
say no man likes to be haunted with the sight of his heir.'’^ 

“ Poor heir!^^ said Russell Penton, very softly, almost 
under his breath. 

“ Poor heir? I should say poor possessor, -poov old man, 
who must see his home go into the hands of a strangerT^ 


'vO A POOR GK^'TLIRMAN. 

The}" liaci come to another ^joiiit where their accustomed 
feet paused^ where the hare winter boughs, with all their 
naked tracery, framed in a wide opening of sky and cloud 
and plain, and where once more those clustered chimneys 
of Penton Hook, with their thin curls of smoke, seemed to 
thrust themselves into the front of the landscape. The 
house lay almost at the gazers" feet, framed in with a clus- 
ter of trees, encircled with a glowing sweep of the stream, 
wiiicli looked like a ribbon of light full of shimmering 
oolor, round the brown settlement of -the half-seen build- 
ing and wintery branches. Mi’s. Penton clasped her hands 
together with a sudden quick suppressed movement of 
strong feeling, and turned hastily away. 


CHAPTEK III. 

P E K T 0 K HOOK. 

Soon after the day when this discussion was carried on 
among the woods of Penton over their heads, the family at 
Penton Hook were holding a sort of committee of ways and 
means in their damp domain below. The winter afternoon 
was clear and bright, and the river ran in deceitfid bright- 
ness round the half-circle of the little promontory. It was 
not of itself at all a disagreeable house. If it had not been 
that the mud and wetness of the garden where the 

water seemed to well up even through the gravel, made 
every footstep mark the too bright blue and brown ties in 
the hall, and gave it a sloppy and disorderly look, the en- 
trance itself might have been pretty enough; but tliere had 
been no attempt made to furnisli or utilize it, and there 
w^ere tracks of glistening steps across it in different direc- 
tions to the different doors, all of which opened out of the 
hall. And the drawing-room was a well-sized, w^ell-shaped 
room, with three or four windows; a room of which, wifh 
a little money and taste, something very pretty might have 
been made. But the windows were turned to the north, 
and the furniture was bare and worn; the walls and the 
caiq^ets and curtains had all alike faded in^o a color which 
can only be described as being the color of poverty. The 
pattern was worn and trodden out upon the carpet; it was 
blurred and dull upon the walls — everything was of a 
brownish, greenish, grayish, indescribable hue. The pict- 


A POOli GENTLEM A X. 


21 


ures on the walls seemed to have grown gray, too, being 
chiefly prints, which ran into the tone of the whole. The 
table at which Mrs. Penton (poor Mrs. Penton) sat with 
her work was covered witli a woolen cover, the ground of 
which had been red with a yellow pattern ; but it (perhaps 
mercifully) had faded, too. And as for the lady, she was 
faded like everything else. Her dress, like the room, had 
sunk into the color of poverty. There was nothing about 
her that was above the level of matter-of-fact dullness. 
She was darning stockings, and they were also indefinite in 
line. Her hair, which had been yellow or very light brown, 
had lost its gloss and sheen. It was knotted behind in a 
loose knot, and might have been classical and graceful had 
it not suggested that this was the easiest way possible to 
dispose of those abundant locks. Her head was stooped 
over her work; her basket on the table was overflowing. 
She paused now and then, and looked up to make her ob- 
servation when it was her turn, but not even for the sake 
of the family consultation could she intermit her necessary 
work. Nine pairs of stockings, not to speak of her own, 
are a great deal for a woman to keep in order. Her own 
'were not much worn, for she walked very little. She, was 
one of those women who are indolent by nature, yet always 
busy. Once seated at her work, stocking after stocking 
went through her hands, and holes as big as a half-moon 
got deftly, swiftly, silently filled up; but it cost her an 
effort to rise from her seat to go about her domestic busi- 
ness. She was indolent in movement, though so industri- 
ous; a piece of still life, though her hands were never idle,. 
This was the kind of woman to whom, in his maturer judg- 
ment, the man Avho had once been Alicia Penton ^s adorer 
had turned. 

He was not far from her, seated in an elbow-chair, not 
an easy-chair, but an old-fashioned mahogany article witli 
arms, upon which he reposed his elbows. His hands were 
clasped in front of him, and now and then, when he forgot 
himself, he twirled his thumbs. He bore a family likeness 
to Sir Walter Penton, having a high nose and long face; 
but he was not the same kind of man. Old Sir Walter at 
nearly eighty was firm and erect still, but Edward Penton 
was limp. He was prone to tumble down upon himself, so 
to speak, like a crumbling wall; to go sinking, telescoping 
into himself like a slippery mass of sand or clay. There 


22 


A POOR GENTLEMAiq-. 


Wias au anxious look in liis countenance, contradicting th 
pretensions of that prominent feature, the nose, whh ■ 
looked aristocratic, his family thought, and did its best to 
look strong. It was the mouth that did it, some people 
thought, a mouth which was manifestly weak, with all 
kinds of uncompleted piteous curves about it, and dubious 
wavering lines. His lower lip would move vaguely from 
time to time, as though he were repeating something. He 
was dressed in knickerbockers and gaiters and a rough coat, 
as if he had a great deal to do out-of-doors. He might 
have been a gentieman farmer, or a squire with an estate 
to look after, or even a gamekeeper of a superior kind; but 
he was nothing of all these. He was only a man who lived 
in the country, and had nothing to do, and had to walk 
about, as it were, for daily bread. 

On the corner of the table, not far from Mrs. Penton, 
sat, with his legs swinging loosely, a younger, a quite young 
man; indeed, poor Wat did not know that he was a man at 
all, or realize what he was coming to. He was the eldest 
son. That did not seem to say very much, considering the 
character of the house, and the manner of life pursued in 
it, but it sounded a great deal to them, for young Walter 
was the heir intail male. He was the representative of all 
the Pentons, the future head of the family. He thought a 
great deal of his position, and so did the family. In time 
Penton would be his, the stately old house, and the title 
would be his which his ancestors had borne. The young 
man felt himself marked out from his kind by this inheri- 
tance. He was humble enough at present, but he had 
only to go on living, to wait and keep quiet, and he must 
be Sir W alter Penton of Penton in the end. He felt a 
greater confidence in this than his father did who came be- 
fore him. Mr. Penton did not look forward to the baronet- 
cy for his part with much enthusiasm. It did not rouse 
him from his habitual depression. Perhaps because care 
was so close and so constant, perhaps because he had come 
to an age which expects but little from any change. He 
did not feel that to become Sir Edward would do much for 
him, but even he felt that for Wat it was a great thing. 

The other two people in the room were the two girls: 
that was all that anybody ever said of them. They were 
scarcely even distinguished by name the one from the other : 
you could scarcely say they were individuals at all; they 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


23 


were the two girls. The children were apt to run their 
two names into one, and call them indiscriminately— Ally- 
Anne. Whether it was Ally or whether it was Anne who 
came first did not matter, it was a generic title which be- 
longed to both. And yet they were not like each other. 
Ally had been called Alicia, after her relation at Penton, 
who was also her godmother, but at Penton Hook life was 
too full for so many syllables. They never got further 
than Alice in the most formal moments, and Ally was the 
name for common wear. Anne bore her mother’s name, 
but Mrs. Penton was Annie, whereas the girl preferred the 
one tiny syllable which expressed her better; for Anne, 
though "she was the youngest, had more fiber in her than 
all the rest put together; but description is vain in face of 
such a little person. Her sister, though the eldest, was the 
shadow and she the substance, and no doubt it was one of 
the subtle but unconscious discriminations of character 
which the most simple make unawares, which led the little 
ones to call whichever individual of this j)air appeared by 
the joint name. 

‘ ■ I shall always say, Edward, that you ought to have 
your share now,” said Mrs. Penton in a soft, even voice, 
never lifting her eyes from her work, but going on steadily 
like a purling stream; you have more to do with it than 
Mr. Kussell Penton, who never can succeed to anything; 
you ought to have your allow^ance like any other heir. ” 

1 don’t know w^hy I should have an allowance,” said 
Mr. Penton, with a voice in which there was a certain 
languid irritation; I have always held my own, and I 
shall always hold my own. And besides. Sir Walter does 
not want me to have the land; he would rather a great 
deal that it went to — Bussell Penton, as you call him, 
though he has no right to our name.” 

But that can’t be,” cried young Wat, seeing that I — 
I mean you, father, are the heir of entail. ” 

It might be,” said Mr. Penton, going on with his tone 
of subdued annoyance, if the law was changed; and one 
never knows in these revolutionary times how soon the law 
might be changed. It has been threatened to be done as 
long as I can remember. Primogeniture and the law of 
entail have been in every agitator’s mouth; they think it 
would be a boon to the working-man.” 

How could it be a boon to the working-man: W^hat 


24 : 


A POOR GENTLEMAlSr. 


have we got to do with the working-man? What does it 
matter to him who has the property? it could not come to 
him anyhow/'’ cried Wat, with great energy, coloring high, 
and swinging his legs more than ever in the vehemence of 
personal feeling. It is all very well to talk of political 
principles, but when the question involves one^s self and 
oner’s own position in the world, the argument is very much 
more argent and moving. Young VValter was rather a 
revolutionary in his own way; he was of the class of gen- 
erous aristocrats who take a great interest in the working- 
man; blit there is reason in all things, and he did not see 
what this personage had to do with his affairs. 

Oh, I don^t know, there is no telling; they might be 
made to think it would do them good somehow. It has 
always been a favorite thing to say. At all events, you 
kiiow,^’ Mr. Penton continued, with his mild disgust of 
everything, it could not do them any harm. Primogeni- 
ture has always been a sort of thing that makes some peo- 
ple foam at the mouth. 

My dear Edward!^’ cried Mrs. Penton; she almost 
looked up from her work, which was a great thing to say; 
and when this mild woman said, My dear Edward, it 
was the same thing as when a man says ‘‘ By Jove, or 

By George.^’ In the gentle level of her conversation it 
counted as a sort of innocent oath. ‘‘ My dear Edward! 
how could they abolish primogeniture,? which so far as I 
know is just the Latin way of saying that one of your chil- 
dren is born before the other. IsnH it, Wat? AVell, I al- 
ways thought so. The Radicals may get to be very power- 
ful, but they caiPt make you have your children all iri a 
heap at the same time."’^ 

“ But they can made it of no importance which is born 
first; that is what it means, said Mr. Penton. “ They 
would have the children all equal, just the same; whether 
it is little Horry or Wat there who* thinks himself such a 
great man.'’^ 

“Well, so they are all the same,'’ ^ said the mother, a 
little bewildered. " “ I often wonder how it is that people 
can make favorites, for I am sure I could not say, for my 
part, which of them all I liked best. I like them all best — 
Horry because he is the littlest, and Wat because he is the 
biggest, and all the rest of them for some other reason, or 


A POOR GEl^TLEMA^s". 


25 


just for no reason at all. And so, I am sure, Edward, do 
Jon. 

In that way Wat would be no better than any of the 
rest,'^ said Anne. 

I should have no call to do anything for yon/’ said the 
young man, with an uncomfortable laugh. It would be 
every one for himself. There would be no bother about 
little sisters or brothers either. On the whole, it would be 
rather a good bargain, donT you think so, mother; Horry 
and the others must all shift for themselves when there is 
no eldest son — 

This time Mrs. Penton really did lift her soft eyes. 

DonT say such wicked things!’^ she said; it is going 
against ScriiDture. As if anything could change you from 
being the eldest son! Who shouM look after the children 
if your father and I were to die; Oh, Wat! how can you 
speak sor — when it is just my comfort, knowing how un- 
certain life is, that the eldest is grown up, and that there 
would be some one to take our place, and take care of all 
these little things!^ ^ 

Mr^. Penton had no mind for politics, as will be per- 
ceived, but the vision of the little orphans without an elder 
brother struck her imagination. This picture of unnatural 
desolation brought the tears warm to her eyes. She took 
another view of promogeniture from that which is familiar 
to discussion, and it was some time before they could ex- 
plain it to her and get her calmed and soothed. Indeed, as 
to explaining it, that was never accomplished; but when she 
fully knew that her first-born did not cast off all responsi- 
bility in respect to little Horry she was calm. 

I don’t pretend to understand politics,” she said, with 
great truth, but I know nature,” which perhaps was not 
quite so true. 

Mr. Penton was not at all moved by this little digression, 
he took no notice of the argument between the mother and 
the children. He was a man who inclined to the opinion 
that things were badly managed in this world, and that 
those who meant to do well had generally a hard fight. He 
thought that on the whole the worst people had the best of 
it, and that a man like himself, struggling to do as well as 
he could for his children, and to live as well as he could, 
and do his duty generally^ was surrounded by hinderances 
and drawbacks which never came in the way of less scrup- 


26 


A POOE OENTLEMAK. 


uloos people. Such an ppiihoii as this often fills a man 
with indignation and something like rage, but it did not 
have this effect upon Mr. Penton. It gave him a general 
sense of iliscouragement, a feeling that everything was sure 
to go against him; but it did not make him angry. In- 
steiul of pointing, as the Psalmist did, with wonder and 
indignation to the wicked who flourished like a green bay- 
tree, he was more disposed to regard this spectacle with a 
melancholy smile as the natural course of affairs. One 
might have known that was how it would be, his look sai(L 
And he was rather apt perhaps to identify himself as the 
righteous man who had no such good fortune to look for. 
He had followed his own train of thoughts while the others 
talked, and now he went on continuing the subject. We 
never can tell,^^ he said, one day from another what 
changes may be made in the law. Sir Walter is an old 
nlan, and it doesnH seem as if there could be any changes 
in his time; but still a craze might get up, and the thing 
might be done all in a moment, which has been threatened- 
ever since I can recollect. So I hope none of you will fill 
your heads with foolish thoughts of what may happen when 
Penton comes to me; for you see, for anything we know, it 
may never come to me at all. 

Having said this, he ceased twirling his thumbs, and 
rising up slowly cast a glance about him as if looking for 
his hat. He never brought his hat into the drawing-room, 
yet he always did this, just as a dog will try to scrape a 
hole in a Turkey carpet; and then Mr. Penton said, as if it 
was quite a new idea, I think I’ll just take a little walk 
before tea. 

It was from an unusual quarter that the conversation 
was renewed. Ally, who was so like her mother, who had 
the same kind of light-brown hair shading her soft counte- 
nance, knotted low at the back of her head, the same fragile 
willowy figure and submissive ways, lifted up her head after 
the little pause that followed his exit, when they all in- 
stinctively listened, and followed him, so to speak, with 
their attention while he walked out of the house. Ally 
raised her head and asked, in a voice in which tliere w^as a 
little apprehension, I wonder if. father really thinks that; 
and what if it should come true!^^ 

‘‘ Your father would not say*it/’ Mrs. Penton replied, 
always careful to maintain her hiisband^s credit, “ unless 


A POOR GEOTLEMAN. 


27 


he thought it, in a kind of a way. But, for all that;, per- 
haps it may never happen. Things take a long time to 
happen,^'’ she said, with unconscious philosophy. We 
just worry ourselves looking for changes, and no change 
comes after all. 

But such a thing might happen suddenly,'^'’ said Wat, 
thinking it necessary, in his father’s absence, to take up 
the serious side of the argument, father is quite right in 
that. With all the extensions of the suffrage and that sort 
of thing, which you doriT understand, Ally, a change in 
the law that has been long talked about might happen in a 
moment. It all depends upon what turn things may take. 

Then we may never go to Penton at all,^^ said Anne, 
jumping tip and throwing her work into her mother^s large 
basket. ‘‘I have always been frightened for Penton all 
my life. IPs a horrid big chilly place that never would 
look like home. I like the little old Hook best, and I hope 
they will abolish primogeniture, or whatever you call it, 
and so Wat will have to do something and we shall all staj 
at home. 

‘‘Anne! do you wish that your father should never 
come into his fortune,^ ^ her mother said, in a reproachful 
tone, “ when you know his heart is set upon it? I am 
frightened myself sometimes when I think of the change of 
living, and having to give dinner-parties and all that; but 
when I think that Edward has never yet been in his right 
element, that he has never liad the position he ought to 
have had — ah! for that I could put up with anything/^ she 
said. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 

The young people at Penton Hook were good children 
on the whole. They respected their father and their moth- 
er, and though they did not always agree in every domestic 
decision, with that holy ignorance which distinguishes 
childhoc^, they were not much less docile than the little 
ones in respect to actual obedience. At seventeen and 
eighteen, much more at twenty, a young soul has begun to 
think a little and to judge, whether it reveals its judgment 
or not. Anne had her own opinions on every subject by 


A POOR GENTLEMAif. 

perversity of nature; and AVat, who was a man, and the 
heir, took on many points a very independent view, and 
could scarcely help thinking now and then that he knew 
better than liis father. And even Ally, who was the quiet- 
est, the most disposed to yield her oVn way of thinking, 
still had a little way of her own, and felt that other ways of 
doing things might be adopted with advantage. They were 
great friends all three, each other^s chief companions: and 
among themselves they talked very freely, seeing the mis- 
takes that were being' made about the other children, and 
very conscious of much that might have been done in their 
own individual cases. Wat, for example, had much to 
complain of in his own upbringing. He had been sent for 
a year or two to Eton, and much had been said about giv- 
ing him the full advantage of what is supposed to be the 
best education. But it had been found after awhile that 
the infallible recurrence of the end of the half, and the 
bills that accompa)iied it, was a serious drawback, and the 
annoyance given by them so entirely outbalanced any sense 
of benefit received, that at sixteen he had been taken away 
from school under vague understandings that there was to 
be work at home to prepare him for the University. But 
the work at home had never come to much. Mr. Pen ton 
had believed that it w^ould be a pleasant occupation for 
himself to rub up his Latin and Greek, and that he would 
be as good a coach as the boy could have. But his Latin 
and Greek wanted a great deal of rubbing up. The fash- 
ions of scholarship had changed since his day, and perhaps 
he had never been so good a scholar as he now imagined, 
x^ud then it was inconceivable to Mr. Pen ton that regular- 
ity of hours was necessary in anything. He thought that 
mere prejudice of school-masters. He would take Wat in 
the morning one day, then in the afternoon, then miss a 
day or two, and resume on the fifth or sixth after tea. 
What could the hours matter? It came about thus by de- 
grees that the readings that were to fit the young man foi* 
matriculation failed altogether, and no more was said about 
the University. AVat had no very strong impulse to work 
in his own person, but when he came to be twenty and be- 
came aware that nothing further was likely to come of it, 
lie felt that he had been neglected, and that so far as educa- 
tion was concerned he had not had justice done him. Had 
lie been a very intellectual young man, or very energetic. 


A POOR (iE>:TLKMAX. 2d 

lie would no doubt have been spurred b}^ this neglect into 
greater personal effort, and done so much that his father 
would have been shamed or forced into taking further 
steps. But Wat was not of this noble sort. He was not 
fond of work; he had always seen his father idle; and it 
seemed to him natural. So that he, too, fell into the wvay 
of lounging about, and doing odd things, and taking the 
days as they came. They kept no horses, so he could not 
hunt. He had not even a gun, nothing better than an old 
one, which, now he was old enough to know better, he was 
ashamed to carry. So that those two natural occupations 
of the rural gen tie in an were denied to him. And it is not 
to be supposed that a boy could reach his twentieth year 
without feeling that an education of this kind — a non-edu- 
cation — had been a mistake. He knew that he was at a 
disadvantage among his fellow -boys or fellow -men. 
Whether he would have felt this as much had he been 
under no other disadvantages in respect to horses and guns 
and pocket-money, we do not venture to say; but, taking 
everything together, Wat could not but feel that he was 
manque, capable of nothing, having no place among his 
kind. And if he felt doubly in consequence the importance 
of his heirship, and that Penton would set all right, who 
could blame him: It was the only possibility in that poor 
little dull horizon which at Penton Hook seemed to run 
into the flats of the level country, the mud and the mist, 
and the rising river, and the falling rain. 

The girls had their little grievances, too, but felt WaPs 
grievance to be so much greater than theirs that they took 
up his cause vetemently, and threw all their indignation 
and the disapproval of their young intelligences into the 
weight of his. It was impossible that they could be as they 
were, young creatures full of life and active thought, with- 
out feeling what a mistake it all was, and how far the 
authorities of the family were wrong. They subjected, 
indeed, the decisions of the father and mother, but espe- 
cially the father, as all our children do, to a keen and clear- 
sighted inspection, seeing what was amiss much more clearly 
than the wisest of us are apt to do in our own case. A lit- 
tle child of ten will thus follow and judge a philosopher, 
perhaps unconsciously in most cases, without a word to ex- 
press its condemnation. 'Jdie young Pentons were not so 
silent. They spoke their mind, lit the perfect confidence 


30 


A' POOR GEXTLEMAK. 


of family intercourse, to their mother always, sometimes to 
their father too. And no doubt in pure logic, this criti- 
cism and disapproval should have dealt a great blow at the 
discipline of the house, and destroj^ed the principle of 
obedience. But fortunately logic is the last thing that 
affects the natural family life. Wat and Ally and Anne 
were in reality almost as obedient as were the little ones to 
whom the decisions of papa and mamma were as the law 
and the gospels. It had never occurred to them to raise 
any standard of rebellion; they did what they were told by 
sweet natural bonds of habit, by the fact that they had al- 
ways done it, by the unbroken sentiment of filial subjec- 
tion. The one thing did not seem to affect the other. It 
never occurred even to Wat to stop and argue the j^oint 
with his father; he did what he was told, though afterward, 
when he came to think of it, he might think that liis own 
Tvay would have been the most wise. 

The conversation which is set down in the last chapter 
did not give any insight into the family controversy that 
had been going on — being only, as it were, the subsiding of 
the waves after that discussion had come to an end. The 
subject in question was one which greatly moved and excit- 
ed all the young people. Oswald, the second boy, who 
came next in the family after Anne, was the genius of the 
house. He was not much mor^ than fifteen, but he had 
already written many poems and other compositions which 
had filled the house with wonder. The girls were sure 
that in a few years Lord Tennyson himself would have to 
look to his laurels, and Mr. Euskin to stand aside: for Os- 
wakVs gifts were manifold, and it was indifferent to him 
whether he struck the strings of poetry or the more sober 
chord of prose. Wat^s fraternal admiration was equally 
genuine and more generous, for it is a little hard upon a 
big boy to recognize his younger brother's superiority; and 
it was dashed % a certain conviction that it would be for 
Osy^s good to be taken down a little. But Wat as much as 
the girls was agitated by the question which had been, so 
to speak, before a committee of the whole house. It was a 
question of more importance at Penton Hook than the fate 
of the ministry or the elections, or anything that might be 
going on in Europe. It was the question whether Osy 
should be continued where he was, at Marlborough, or if 
his education should be suspended till ^‘better times. 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


31 


Behind this lay a darker and more dreadful suggestion, of 
which the family were vaguely conscious, but which did not 
come absolutely under discussion, and this was whether 
Osy’s education should be stopped altogether, and an 

opening in life found for him. Nothing that had ever 
happened to them had moved the family so much as this 
question. The better times which the Pen tons looked 
forward to could be nothing other than the death of Sir 
Walter and Mr. Penton^s accession to the headship of the 
family; and it was in the lull of exhaustion that followed a 
long discussion that Mrs. Penton made her suggestion 
about the propriety of an allowance being made to her hus- 
band as the heir of the property, which had led him into 
the expression of those general but discouraging ideas about 
entails and primogeniture. It had not perhaps occurred 
to Mr. Penton before; but now he came to think of it it 
seemed just of a piece wdth the general course of affairs, 
and of everything that had happened to him in the past, 
that new laws should come in at the moment and deprive 
him in the future of the heirship of which he had been so 
sure. 

When Mr. Penton went out for his walk after the state- 
ment he had made of these possibilities, Wat and the girls 
went out too, on their usual afternoon expedition to the 
post. There was not very much to be done at Penton 
Hook, especially at this depressing time of the year when 
tennis was impracticable and the river not to be thought 
of. The only amusement possible was walking, and that 
is a pleasure which palls — above all when the roads are 
muddy and there is nowhere in particular to go to. It was 
Anne, in the force of her youthful invention, who had es- 
tablished the habit of going to the post. It was an ‘‘ ob- 
ject, and made a walk into a sort of duty — not the mere 
meaningless stroll which, without this purpose, it would 
turn to; and though the correspondence of the household 
was not great, Anne also managed that there should always 
be something which demanded to be posted, and could not 
be delayed. When there was nothing else she w^ould her- 
self dash off a note to one of the many generous persons 
who advertise mysterious occupations by which ladies and 
other unemployed persons may earn an income without a 
knowledge of drawing or anything else in particular. Alas! 
Anne had answered so many of these advertisements that 


32 


A POOK GEXTLEMAX. 


she was no longer sanguine of getting a satisfactoiy reply; 
but if there was no letter to be sent off^ nothing of her 
father's about business, no post-card concerning the gro- 
ceries, or directions to the dress-maker, or faithful family 
report from Mrs. Pen ton to one of her relations, such as, 
amid all the occupations of her life, that dutiful woman sent 
regularly, Anne could always supply the necessary letter 
from her own resources. It was on a similar afternoon to- 
that on which the Pentons at the great house had discussed 
and thought of the poorer household; and a wintery sunset, 
very much the same as that on which Mr. Eussell Penton 
and his wife had looked, shone in deep lines of crimson and 
gold, making of the river which reflected it a stream of 
flame, when the three young people, far too much absorbed 
in their own affairs to think of the colors in the sky or the 
reflections in the river, or anything but Osy and his pros- 
IDects, and the state of the family finances, and the, mis- 
takes of family government, came down the hill from the 
level of the Penton woods toward their o\\ n home. The 
western sky, blazing with color, was on the left hand; but 
even the sky toward the north and east shared in the gen- 
eral illumination, and clouds all rose-tinted, concealing 
their heaviness in the flush of reflection, hung upon the 
chili blue, and seemed to warm the fresh wintery atmos- 
phere before it sunk into the chill of night. The girls and 
their brother kept their heads together, speaking two at 
once in the eagerness of their feelings, and found no time 
for contemplation of what w^as going on overhead. A sun- 
set is a thing which comes every evening, and about which 
there is no urgent reason for attention, as there was upon 
this question about Osy, which struck at the foundations of 
family credit and hope. 

When I left Eton,'’'’ said Wat with melancholy candor 
— I had not much sense, to be sure — it seemed ra flier fine 
coming away to work at home. Fellows thought 1 was 
going to work for something out of the common way. I 
liked it — on the whole. When you are at school there is 
alw^ays something jolly in the thought of coming home. 
And so will Osy teel like me.'''' 

But you were neven clever, Wat,"^ said the impetuous 
Anne. 

This was perhaps a little hard to bear. Clever is 
neither here nor there, said Wat with a little flush. It 


A POOR O ENT L KM AN. 


does not make much difterence to yonr feelings: I suppose 
I can tell better how Osy will take it than one of you 
girls. 

‘‘ Oh no; for girls are more ambitious than boys, I mean 
boys that are just ordinary like the rest. And Osy is not 
like you. Ue is full of ambition, he wants to be some- 
thing, to make a great name. I have the most sympathy 
with that. Ally and you,^^ cried the girl with a toss of her 
head like a young colt, you are the contented ones, you 
are so easily satisfied; but not Osy nor me. 

’‘Contented is the best thing you can be,^’ said gentle 
Ally. “ What is there better than content? Whatever 
trouble people take, it is only in the hope of getting satis- 
faction at the end.^^ 

“ I wish I was contented, said Walter, “ that is all you 
know. What have I got to be contented about? I have 
nothing to do; I have no prospects in particular, nothing 
to look forward to. 

‘‘ Oh, Watty — Penton!^^ 

“ Penton is all very well: but how can we tell when Sir 
Walter may die? No, I don^t want him to die,^^ cried the 
young man. “ I wish no harm to him nor to any man. I 
only say that because — Of course, so long as Sir W alter 
lives Penton may be paradise, but it has nothing to say to 
us. And then, as father says, the law may be changed be- 
fore that happens, or something else may come in the way. 
No, I doiPt know what can come in the way; for after Sir 
Walter, of course father is head of the family, and I am the 
eldest son.^^ These words had a cheering eifect upon the 
youth in spite of himself. He turned back to look up 
where the corner of the great house was visible amid the 
trees. The Pentons of the Hook knew all the spots where 
that view was to be had. He turned round to look at it, 
turning the girls with him, who were like two shadows. 
No prospects in particular! when there was that before his 
eyes, the house of his fathers, the house which he intended 
to transmit to his children! He drew a long breath which 
came from the very depths of his chest, a sigh of satisfac- 
tion yet of desire — of a feeling too deep to get into w'ords. 
“ I say, what a sunset !^^ he cried, by way of diverting the 
general attention from this subject, upon which he did not 
feel able to express himself more clearly. 

They all looked for tlic first time at the grand operation 


34 


A POOR GEXTLEMAi^. 


of nature which was going on in the western sky. The 
heavens were all aglow with lines of crimson and purple^ 

. the blue spaces of the great vault above retiring in light 
ineffable far beyond the masses of cloud, which took on 
every tinge of color, 2>i'oserving their own high purity and 
charms of infinitude. The great plain below lay silent 
underneath like a breathless spectator of that great, ever- 
recurring drama, the river gathering up fragments of the 
glory and flashing back an answer here and there in its 
windings wherever it was clear of the earthly obstructions 
of high banks and trees. Something of the same radiance 
Hashed in miniature from the young eyes that with one ac- 
cord turned and looked — but for a moment and no more. 
They noted the sunset in a parenthesis, by a momentary in- 
ference; what they had sought was Penton, with all its 
human interests. And then they turned again and faced 
the north, where lay their poor little horn and the lowli- 
ness of the present, to which neither the su' set nor any 
other glory lent a charm. 

You are the eldest son,^^ said Anne, resuming without 
a pause; ‘‘that’s all about it. That makes everything 
different. Suppose it is right — or at least not wrong— for 
you to loaf about. But Osy hasn’t got Penton; he has got 
to make himself a name. If he is stopped in his educa- 
tion, what is he to do? You ought to speak to father; we 
all ought to make a stand. If Osy is stopped in his educa- 
tion it is quite different. What is he to do?” 

, “ Father would never stop his education if he could afford 
it. It is the money. If we could only give up something. 
But what is there we can give up? Sugar and butter count 
for so little,” said Ally, iii soft tones of despair. 

“I should not mind,” said Anne, “if we did not get 
anything new for years.” 

“ We so seldom have anything new,” her sister said, with 
a sigh; there was so little to economize in this way. All 
the savings they could think of would not make up half the 
sum that had to be paid for Osy. Their young spirits were 
crushed under this thought. What could they do? The 
girls, as has been said, had answered a great many of those 
advertisements which offer occupation to ladies; they had 
tried to make beaded lace and to paint Christmas cards, 
Alas! that, like the butter and sugar, counted for so little. 
They might as well try to make^ use of the colors of the 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


35 


sunset as to make up Osy^s schooling in that way: and 
M at was even more helpless than they. It was so discour- 
aging a prospect that no one could say a word. They 
walked down with their faces to the grayness and dimness 
from whence night was coming, and their hopes, like the'^ 
light, seemed to be dying away. 

It was Anne, always the most quick to note e^^rything 
that happened, who broke the silence. M’hat is that/^ 
she cried, at our door? Look there, wheeling in just 
under the lime-trees’/^ 

‘‘ A carriage! MTio can it be?"’ 

‘‘The Penton carriage! Don’t you see the two bays? 
Something must be up!” cried Walter, a flash of keen 
curiosity kindling in his eyes. 

They stopped for a moment and looked at each other 
with a sudden thrill of expectation. 

“No one has been to see us from Penton for years and 
years.” 

“ The carriage would not come for nothing!” 

“It has been sent perhaps to fetch father!” 

They hurried down with one accord, full of excitement 
and wonder and awe. 


CHAPTER Y. 

A winter’s walk. 

Mr. Penton went out to take his walk in a depressed 
mood. He was familiar with all the stages of depression. 
He was a man who thought he had been hardly dealt with 
in the course of his life. In his youth there had been a 
momentary blaze of gayety and pleasure. In those days, 
when he had shared the early follies of ^Valter and Regi- 
nald, and fallen in love with Alicia, it had not occurred to 
him that the path of existence would be a dull one. But 
that was all over long ago. When the other young men 
had fallen into dissipation and all its attendant miseries, he 
had pulled himself up. Pleasure was all very well, but he 
had no idea of paying such a price for it as that. He was 
not a man who had ever been brought under any strong 
religious impulse, but he knew the difference between right 
and wrong. He pulled himself up with great resolution, 
and abandoned the flowery path where all the thorns are at 


36 


A TOOK GEXTLEMAK. 


first hidden under the bloom and brightness. It was no 
small sacrifice to descend into the gray mediocrity of PeiH 
ton Hook, and give himself uj) to the dull life which was 
all that was possible; but lie did it, which was not an easy 
thing to do. It was true that he was still in those days a 
young man, and might have made something better of his 
existence; but he had no training of any special kind, no 
habit of work, no great capacity one way or other. He 
settled down to his dull country life without any feeling 
that he could do better, leaving all excitement behind him. 
It was perhaps a more creditable thing to do than if he had 
been able to plunge into another kind of excitement, to 
face the world and carve a fortune out of it, which is the 
alternative possible to some men. And as there had been 
no illusion possible when he accepted that neutral-tinted 
life, so there had been no unexpected happiness involved in 
its results. He had married a good woman, but not a 
lively one. His children had been pleasant and amusing in 
their babyhood, but they had brought innumerable cares 
along with them. Before their advent Penton Hook had 
been dull, but it had not been without many little comforts. 
He had been able to keep a couple of horses, which ol itself 
was a considerable thing, and to hold his place more or less 
among the county people. But as the young ones grew it 
made a great difference. Just at the time when life ought 
to have opened up for their advantage, it had to be narrowed 
and straitened. He was compelled to give up his own grati- 
fications on their account, yet without any compensating 
consciousness that he was doing the best he could for them. 
Indeed, there seemed no possibility of doing the best that 
could be done for any one. To keep on, to do what was 
indispensable, to provide food and clothing — the mere sor- 
did necessities of life — was all that was within his power. 
In the early days after his marriage nothing had been 
saved; the necessity of education and provision for the chil- 
dren seemed either ludicrous in presence of the tiny creat- 
ures who wanted nothing but bread and milk and kisses, 
or so far off as to be beyond calculation. But by gradual 
degrees this necessity had become the most important of 
all. And with it, unfortunately, had come that deprecia- 
tion in the value of land which made his little estate much 
less productive exactly at the time when he wanted money 
most. 


A POOR GEKTLE.MAX. 


3 ? 


One of his farms was vacant, the. others were let at low 
rents — all was sinking into a clifterent level. And, on the 
other hand, the vvants of the family increased every day. 
It is not to be supposed that Mr. Penton liked to take O.sy 
from school. He had been inclilferent about Wat for vai i- 
ous reasons, first because he then quite believed that he 
was i-eally capa))le of reading with his boy, and wouitl 
rather like it than otherwise, and then it would be a good 
thing for them both; and second, because Wat was the 
heir, and no great education is necessary (Mr. Penton 
thouglit with Mrs. Hardcastle in the play) to fit a man to 
spend a large income. But with Osy no such argument 
told. Osy was heir to nothing. He was the clever one of 
the family; and as for reading with Osy, his father knew 
tliat he Avas not capable of any such feat, even if he had 
not proved that to keep settled hours and give up a part 
of his day to his son’s instruction had come to be a thing 
impossible to him. He knew very well now that to take 
Oswald from school would be to do him an injury. But 
what could the poor man dor All that the young ones said 
in their warm partisanship for Osy, in their indignation at 
the idea of making him sulfer, had more or less afi’ected 
their father. He was not very sensitive to anything they 
could say, and yet it wounded him in a dull way. It made 
him a little more depressed and despondent. To battle 
with the waves, to be tossed upon a great billow which may 
swallow you up, yet may also throw your ashore and bring 
you to a footing upon .tlie solid earth, is less terrible than 
just to keep your head above the muddy tide which sucks 
you down and carries you on, with no prospect but to go 
to the bottom at last when your powers of endurance are 
spent. This last was Mr. Penton ’s state. 'Inhere was no 
excitement of a storm, no lively stir of winds and waters — 
all was dull, dreary, hopeless; a position in which he could 
do nothing to help himself, nothing to save himself — in 
which he must just go on, kee^jing his head above water as 
he could, now and then going dovvn, getting his eyes and 
throat full of the lieavy, mufldy, livid stream. Poverty is 
little to the active soul which can struggle and strive and 
outwit it, which can still be doing; but to those who have 
nothing they can do, who can only wait speechless till they 
are ingulfed, how bitter is that slowly mounting, colorless, 
liopeless, all-subduing tide! 




as 


A POOR GENTLEMAK. 


There was very little for a man to do at Peiiton Hook. 
He had tramped about the fields of the vacant farm, try- 
ing heljfiessly to look after things which he did not under- 
stand, and to make the fallow fields bear crops by looking 
at them, in the morning; and he had come away from 
them more depressed than ever, wondering whether, if he 
could get money enough to start and work the farm any- 
thing might be made of it; then reflecting dolefully that in 
ail likelihood the money for such operations, e\en if he 
could raise it, might in all probability be as well thrown 
into the river for any good it would do." In the afternoon 
he (lid not attempt any farther consideration of this ques- 
tion, but simply took a walk as he had been in the habit of 
doing for so many years. And though in some circum- 
stances there are few things so pleasant, yet in others there 
is nothing so doleful as this 02)eration of taking a walk. 
How much helpless idleness, how many hopeless selhques- 
tions, miserable m usings, are summed up in it; what a 
dreamy common j)lace it turns to, the sick souPs dull sub- 
stitute for something to do or think of. It was in its way 
a sort of epitome of Edward Penton’s w^earisome life. He 
knew every turning of the road; there w^as nothing unex- 
pected to look forw^ard to, no novelty, no incident; when 
he met any one he knew% any of his equals, they w^ere most 
probably riding or driving, or returning from a day with 
the liounds, splashed and tired, and full of talk about the 
run. He took of! his hat to the county ladies as they 
drove past, and exchanged a word wdth the men. He had 
nothing to say to them nor they to him. He was of their 
sphere indeed, but not in it. He knew when he had 
passed that they would say Poor Penton!^' to each other, 
and discuss his circumstances. He W’as happier wdien he 
came now' and then upon a solitary poor man breaking 
stones on the w^ay, with whom he would stop and have a 
talk abojut the W'eather or how the country w'as looking. 
When he could find tw^opence in his pocket to give for a 
glass of beer he w'as momentarily cheered by the encounter. 
It w^as a cheap pleasure, and. alaiost his only one. It gave 
a little relief to the dullness and discouragement W'hicli 
filled all the rest of the w^ay. 

There was, how’ever, one incident in his walk besides the 
twopence to the stone-breaker. There w'as no novelty in 
this. Every day as he came up to the turning he knew' 


A POOR OEX TLEMA^v. 3!) 

what aw^aited him; but that did not take away from its 
perennial interest. This incident was Pen ton, seen in the 
distance; not the terrace front, which he, like all the Pen» 
toils, thought a monument of architectural art, but a high 
shoulder of red masonry, which shone through the ti'ees, 
and suggested all the rest to his accustomed eyes. Pen ton 
was the one incident in his walk, as it was in his life. He 
was poor, and the waters of misery were almost going over 
his head. Yet Pen ton stood fast, and he was the heir. 
He had said this to himself for years, and though the 
words Jiiight have worn out all their meaning, so often had 
they been repeated, yet there was an endless excitement in 

them. Twenty years before he had said them with a sense 
of mingled exultation and remorse, which was when the 
last of the boys died, and he became against all possi- 
bility the next heir. Sir Walter had been an old man 

then, and it seemed probable that these recurring calamities 
would end his life as well as his hopes. Edward Penton had 
nothing to reproach himself with; he had never been bard 
upon his cousins, though he had abandoned their evil ways, 
and he had been shocked and sorry when one by one they 
died. But afterward he had looked forward to his inherit- 
ance; he had believed that it could not be far off. He had 
come to this turning when first he began to feel life too 
many for him, and had looked at the house that was to be 
his and had taken comfort. But twenty years is a long 
time, and waiting for dead men’s shoes is not a pleasant 
occupation. He looked at Penton now always with excite- 
ment, but without any exhilaration of hope. It did not 
seem so unlikely as before that Sir Walter might live to be 
a hundred; that he might live to see his 3^01111 ger cousin 
out. As he had outlived his own sons he might outlive 
Edward Penton and his sons after him. Xothing seemed 
impossible to such an old man. And Mr. Penton did not 
feel that his own powers of living, any more than any other 
powers ill him, were much to be reckoned upon. He stood 
on this particular day and gazed at the house of his fathers 
with a long and wistful look. Should he ever step into it 
as his own: Should he ever change his narrow state for 
the lordship there? This question did not bring to him 
the same quickening of the breath which he had been sen- 
sible of on so many previous occasions. He was too much 
depressed to-day to be roused even by that. He turned 


40 


A POCK GENTLEMAN. 


away with a sigh;, and turned his back to that vision and 
his face homeward. At home all his cares were awaiting 
him — as if he had not carried them with him every step of 
tiie way. 

As he walked back toward Pentoii Hook his ear was 
caught by the chip of the hammer, which sounded in the 
stillness of the wintery afternoon like some big insect on the 
road. Chip, chip, and then the little roll of falling stones. 
The man who made the sound was sitting on a heap of 
stones by the road-side, working very tranquilly, not hurry- 
ing himself, taking his occupation easily. He was gray- 
haired, with a picturesque gray beard, and a red handker- 
chief knotted underneath. He paused to put his hand to 
his cap when he saw Mr. Pen ton. The recollection of past 
glasses of beer, or hopes for the future, or perhaps the social 
pleasure, independent of all interested motives, of five min- 
utes' talk to break the dullness of the long afternoon, made 
the approach of the wayfarer pleasant. 

Good-afternoon, sir,’’ he said, cheerfully. 

Old Crockford, though he was a great , deal older than 
Mr. Penton, and much poorer absolutely, though not com- 
paratively, was, by no means a depressed person, but re- 
garded everything from a cheerful point of view. 

Good-rnorning, Crockford,” said Mr. Penton. T 
didn’t see you when I passed a little while ago. I thought 
you had not been out to-day. ” 

Bless you, squire, I’m out most days,” said Crockford ; 
‘‘ weather like this it’s nothin’ but pleasure. But frost 
and cold is disagreeable, and rain’s worst of all. I’m all 
right as long as there’s a bit o’ sunshine, and it keeps 

“ It looks like keeping up, or I am no judge,” said the 
poor squire. 

Crockford shook his head and looked up at the sky. “ I 
don’t like the look of them clouds,” he said. “ When 
they rolls up like that, one on another, I never likes the 
look on them. But, praise the Lord, we’s high and dry, 
and can’t come to no harm. ” 

‘‘ It is more than I am,” said Mr. Penton, testily. “ I 
hate rain!” 

“ And when the river’s up it’s in of the house, sir, I’ve 
heard say? That’s miserable, that is. When the children 
were young my missis and me we lived down by Pepper’s 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 


.41 


Wharf, and the fevers as them little ones had, and' the 
coughs and sneezing and the rheumatics, it more nor 
tongue can say. Your young ladies, squire, is wonderful 
red in the face "and straight on their pins to be living along- 
side of the river. It^s an onpleasant neighbor is the river, 
1 always do say. 

If you hear any fools saying that the water comes into 
my house you have my permission to — stop them,' ' said 
Mr. Penton, angrily. It^s no such thing; the water never 
comes higher than the terrace. As for fevers, we don’t 
know what they are. But I don’t like the damp in my gar- 
den; that stands to reason. It spoils all the paths and 
washes the gravel away. ” 

“That’s very true,” said Crockford, wdtli conviction; 
“ it leaves ’em slimy, whatever you do. I’ve seen a sight 
to-day as has set me thinking, though I’m but a poor chap. 
Poor men, like others, they ’as their feelings. I’ve seen a 
lady go by, squire, as may be once upon a day years ago, 
you, or most of the gentlemen about — for she was a hand- 
some one, she was — ’ 

“Ah, an old beauty! ^ Even in our ashes live their 
wonted fires. ’ And who might this lady be?” ' 

“ Many a one was SNveet upon her,” said Orockfoixl. “ I 
ain’t seen her, not to call seeing, for many a year. 1 don’t 
know about ashes, squire, except as they’re useful for scour- 
ing. And they say that beauty is but skin deep: but when 
I looks at an ’andsome lady I don’t think nothing of all 
that, ” 

“ I didn’t know you were such an enthusiast. Crock- 
ford.” 

“I don’t always understand, squire,” said Crockford, 
“ the words the quality employ. Xow and then they’ll 
have a kind of Greek or Latin that means just a simple 
thing. But I sits here hours on end, and I thinks a deal; 
and for a thing that pleases the eye I don’t think there’s 
nothing more satisfying than an ’andsome woman. I don’t 
say in my own class of life, for they ages fast, do the wom- 
en: they don’t keep their appearance like you and me, if I 
may make so bold. But for a lady as has gone through a 
deal, and kep’ her looks, and got an air with her, that goes 
with riding in her own carriage behind a couple of ’and- 
some bays — 1 will say, squire, if I was to be had up before 
the magistrates for it — and yoirre one yourself, and ought 


4:3 


A POOR GENTI.EMAIS'. 


to know— and what I say is this : that Miss Aliciar from 
the great house there is just as fine a sight as a man would 
wish to see/ ^ 

^ /Miss Alicia rV cried poor Pen ton. The name was one 
he had not heard for long, and it seemed to bring back a 
tliish of his youth which for a moment dazzled liim. He 
burst put into a tremendous laugh after awhile. You 
old blockhead!’^ he said. YouTe talking of Mrs. Eussell 
pjnton, my cousin, who hasnT been called by that name 
these twenty years 

‘‘Twenty years/ ^ said old Crockford^ ‘‘is nothing 
squire, to a man like me. I knew her a baby^ just as I 
knowed you. YouT’e both two infants to the likes of 
me. Bless you, I hear the bells ring for her christening 
and yours too. But she^s a fine, ^andsome woman, 
a-wheelin^ along in her carriage as if alt the world belonged 
to her. I douT think nothin" of a husband that liainT even 
a name of his own to bless himself with nor a penny to 
spend. It's you and her that should have made a match; 
that"s what ought to have been, squire."" 

Unfortunately, you see,"" said Mr. Penton, ‘‘I have 
got a wife of my own."" 

But you hadn"t no wife nor her a husband in the old 
days,"" said Crockford, meditatively, pausing to emphasize 
his words wdtli the chip, cliip of his hammer. “ Dear a 
me! the mistakes that are in this life! One like me, as 
sits here hours on end, with naught afore him but the 
clouds flying and the wind blowing, learns a many things. 
There's more mistakes than aught else in this life. Going 
downright wrong makes a deal of trouble, but mistakes 
makes more. For one as goes wrong there 's allays two or 
three decent folks as suffers. But mistakes is just like daily 
bread; they "re like the poor as is ever with us, accordin" to 
the Scripture; they just makes a muddle of everything. 
]t"s been going through my mind since ever I see Miss 
Aliciar in her chariot a-driving aw^ay, as fine as King Solo- 
mon in all his glory. The two young gentlemen, that was 
a sad sort of a thing, squire, but I don"t know as t’other is 
much better, the mistakes as some folks do make."" 

Crockford, you are growing old, and fond of talking,"" 
said Mr. Penton, who had heard him out with a sort of 
angiy patience." “ Because one lets you go on and say your 
say, that's not to make you a judge of your betters. Look 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 43 

here, here’s twopence for a glass of beer, but mind yon 
keep your wisdom lo yourself another day.” 

Thank ye, squire,” said Crockford. ‘‘ I speak my 
mind in a general way, but I can hold my tongue as well 
as another when it ain’t liked. Eemarks as is unpleasant, 
or as pricks like, going too near a sore place — ” 

“ Oh, confound you!” said the squire; who ever said 
there was a — ” But then he remembered that to quarrel 
with Crockford was not a thing to be done. I think, 
after all,” he said, you’re right, and that those clouds are 
banking up for rain. You’d better pack up your hammer, 
it’s four o’clock, and it will be wet before you get home.” 

‘‘ Well, squire, if you says so, as is one of the trustees,’^ 
said Crockford, giving an eye to the clouds, as he swung him- 
self leisurely off his hard and slippery seat upon the heap of 
stones — I’ll take your advice, sir, and thank ye, sir; and 
wishing you a pleasant walk afore the rain comes on. ” 

Mr. Penton waved his hand and continued his walk down- 
hill toward his home. The clouds were gathering indeed, 
but they were full of color and reflection, which showed all 
the more gorgeous against the rolling background of vapor 
which gradually obliterated the blue. He was not afraid of 
the rain, though if it meant another week of wet weather 
such as had already soaked the country, it would also mean 
much discomfort and inconvenience in the muddy little 
domain of Penton Hook. But it was not this he was think- 
ing of. His own previous reflections, and the sharp reminder 
of the past that was in old Crockford’s random talk, made 
a combination not unlike that of the dark clouds and the 
lurid reflected colors of the sky. Mistake? Yes; no doubt 
there had been a mistake^ — many mistakes, one after an- 
other, mistakes which the light out of the past, with all its 
dying gleams, made doubly apparent. His mind was so 
full of all these thoughts that he arrived at his own gates 
full of them, without thinking of the passing vision which 
had stirred up old Crockford, and his own mind too, on 
hearing of it. But when he pushed open the gate and 
caught sight of the two bays, pawing and rearing their 
heads, with champ and stir of all their trappings, as if they 
disdained the humble door at which they stood, Edward 
Pen ton’s middle-aged heart gave a sudden jump in his 
breast. Alicia he^e! What could such a portent mean? 


44 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

RICH MRS. PENTON AND POOR MRS. PENTON. 

Mrs. Russell Penton had not come to the Hook for 
nothing. It was years since she had visited her cousin’s 
house — partly because of repeated absences — for the family 
at Pen ton were fond of escaping from the winter, and 
generally spent that half of the year on the Riviera — partly 
from the feeling she had expressed to her husband, which 
was not a very Christian feeling, of repulsion from her fa- 
ther’s heir: and partly, which was perhaps the strongest 
reason of all, because they were, not, as she said, in our 
own siDhere.” How can the wife and many children of a 
poor man living in a small muddy river-side house be in the 
sphere of one of the great ladies of the district? Only 
great qualities on one side or another, great affection or 
some other powerful inducement, would be enough to span 
that gulf. And no such link existed between the two 
houses. But there had come to light between her father 
and herself in one of those close and long consultations, to 
which not even her husband was admitted, a plan which 
required Edward Penton’s concurrence, and which, they 
concluded between them, had better be set before him by 
Alicia herself. This might have been done by summoning 
the heir-at-law to Penton. But Russell Penton’s veiled 
remonstrances, his laugh at her inconsistency, his compari- 
son of the importance of the moth-eaten tapestry and 2:)Oor 
Mrs. Penton’s inability to cut her coat according to her 
cloth, had not been without effect on his wife’s mind. She 
was not incapable of perceiving the point which he mnde; 
and though she confessed to nobody, not even to herself, 
that her visit to Penton Hook had a little remorseful im- 
pulse in it, yet this mingled largely with the evident busi- 
ness which might have been managed in another way. 
Many recollections rose in her mind also as she went along, 
not exposed even to such interruptions as that of old 
Crockford, all by herself with her own thoughts, remember- 
ing in spite of herself the youthful expeditions in which the 
Hook was so large a feature, the boating parties that took 
the water” there, the anxious exertions of poor Edward to 


A POUIi GKNTLKMAN. 


45 


make his forlorn little mansion bright. Poor Edward! 
She remembered so clearly his eager looks^, his desire to 
please, the anxious devices with which he sought to gratify 
her tastes, to show how his own followed them. She had 
not seen much of his older aspect, and had no distinct im- 
age in her mind to correct that of the eager young man 
reading her face to see if she approved or disapproved, and 
having no higher standard by which to shape his own 
opinions. She saw him in that aspect: and she saw him 
as by a lightjiing flash of terrible recollection, whiL-li was 
half imaginatioti, as he had appeared to her by the side of 
her last brother’s grave, the chief mourner and the chief 
gainer, concealing a new-born so ise of his own importance 
under the conventional guise of woe. Alicia was half con- 
scious that she did poor Edward wu’ong. He was not the 
sort of man to exult in his own advantage as purchased by 
such a terrible family tragedy. But even now, when the 
passion of grief and loss was over, she could not surmount 
the bitter suggestion, the knowledge that he had certainly 
gained by what was ruin to her father’s house. When she 
drove past the old stone 'breaker on the road wdthout tak- 
ing any notice of him, without even remarking his pres- 
ence, this had been the recollection with which her soul was 
filled. But her heart melted as the carriage swept along 
by all the well-remembered corners, and a vision of the 
happy youthful party of old, the sound. of the boats at the 
little landing, the eager delight of the young master of the 
place, seemed to come back to her ears and eyes. ' 

But Penton Rook did not look much like a boating party 
to-day. The 'vater was very near the level of the too 
green grass, the empty damp flower-beds, the paths that 
gleamed with wet. A certain air of deprecating helpless- 
ness standing feebly against that surrounding power was in 
everything about. Alicia, as she was now, the active- 
minded manager of much property, full of energy and re- 
sources, one of those who, like the centurion, have but to 
say, ‘‘ Come, and he cometh; do this, and he doeth it,” 
cast her eyes, awakened out of all dreams, upon the sweep 
of river and the little bit of weeping soil which seemed to 
lie in its grasp appealing for mercy to the clouds and the 
skies. The sight gave new life to all her scornful com- 
ments upon the incompetency of those who, knowing what 
they had, could not take the dignified position of making 


46 


A POOH GEKTLEMA'N’. 


it do, but sunk into failure and helpless defeat. She 
planned rapidly in a moment what she would do, were it 
but to keep the enemy at bay. Were it hers she would 
scarcely hav^e waited for the dawn of the morning, she 
would have sent in her workmen, prepared her plans, 
learned the best way to deal with it, long ago. She would 
have made herself the mistress, not the slave, of the sur- 
rounding stream. In whatever way, at whatever cost, she 
would have freed herself, she would have overcome these 
blind influences of nature. It was with a little scorn, feel- 
ing that she could have done this, feeling that she would 
like to do it, that it would be a pleasure to fight and over- 
come that silent, senseless force, that Mrs. Eussell Penton, 
rich Mrs. Penton, swept in through the weeping gardens 
of the Hook, and with all the commotion of a startling 
arrival, her bays prancing, her wheels cutting the gravel, 
drew up before the open door. 

The door was always open, whether the day was warm or 
cold, with an aspect not of hospitality and liberal invitation, 
but rather of disorder and a squalid freedom from rule. 
The hall was paved with vulgar tiles which showed the 
traces of wet feet, and Mrs. Eussell Penton sunk down all 
at once from her indignant half-satisfied conviction that it 
was a sign of the incompetency of poor Edward in his 
present surroundings that he had never attempted to do 
anything to mend matters when brought thus face to face 
with poverty. The traces of the wet feet appalled her. 
This was just such an evidence of an incompetent household 
and careless mistress as fitted in to her theory; but it was 
terrible to her unaccustomed senses, to which a perfection 
of nicety and propriety was indispensable, and any branch 
of absolute cleanness and purity unknown. The maid, who 
harried frightened, yet delighted, to the door, did not,- 
however, carry out the first impression made. She was so 
neat in her black gown and white apron that the visitor 
was nonplused as by an evident contradiction. Can you 
tell me if Mr. Penton is at homer she asked, leaning out 
of the carriage and putting aside the footman with a mo- 
mentary feeling that this, perhaps, might be one of poor 
EdvvarcPs daughters acting as house- maid. “ No, my lady ; 
but missis is in,^^ said the handmaid with a courtesy which 
she had learned at school. Martha did not know who the 
visitor was, but felt that in all circumstances to call a vis- 


A POOR (4EXTLEMAN. 47 

3 tor who came in such a fine carriage my lady could not be 
wrong. 

"'Missis is in!'^ l^ich Mrs. Penton felt a momentary 
thrill. It was as if she had been heaidng herself spoken of 
in unimaginable circumstances. She paused a little with 
a sense of unwillingness to go further. She had met on 
yarious occasions the insignificant pretty young woman who 
w^as poor Edward's wife. She had made an effort to be 
kind to her when they were first married^ w’hen the poor 
Pentons were still more or less in one's own sphere. But 
there had been nothing to interest her, nothing to make up 
for the trouble of maintaining so uncomfortable a relation- 
ship, and since that period she had not taken any notice of 
her cousin's wife, a woman always immured in nursing 
cares, having babes or nourishing them, or deep in some 
one of those semi-animal (as she said) offices which disgust 
a fastidious woman, who in her owm person has nothing of 
the kind to do. A woman without children becomes often 
very fastidious on this point. Perhaps the disgust may be 
partly born of envy, but at all events it exists and is strong. 
Mrs. Penton hesitated as to w^hether she would turn back 
and not go in at all, or whether she would w^ait at the door 
till Edward came in, or ask to be showm into his particular 
sitting-room to wait for him: but that, she reflected, would 
be a visible slight to Edw^ard's wn'fe. The unexpressed un- 
formulated dread of what Russell might say restrained her 
here. He would not criticise, but lie w'ould laugh, which 
was much worse. He would perhaps give vent to a cer- 
tain small whistle which she knew very well, when she 
acknowledged that she had been to Penton Hook without 
seeing the mistress of the house. She did not at all confess 
to herself that she was a coward, but as a matter of fact 
rich Mrs. Penton was more afraid of that whistle than poor 
Mrs. Penton was of anything, except scarlatina. Alicia 
hesitated; she sat still in her carriage for the space of a 
minute, while simple Martha gazed as if she had been a 
queen, and admired the deep fur on the lady's velvet man- 
tle, and the bonnet which had come from Paris. Then 
Mrs. Penton made up her mind. "" Perhaps your mistress 
will see me," she said; "" I should like to w^ait till Mr. Pen- 
ton comes in.'^ 

"" Oh, yes, my lady," Martha said. Though she had 
been carefully instructed how to answ^er visitors, she felt 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


‘4S 

instinctively that this visitor could not be asked her name 
as jf she was an ordinary lady making a call. She then 
opened the drawing-room very wide and said, ^-Please, 
ma-am!’^ then stopped and let the great lady go in. 

Mrs. Penton, poor Mrs. Penton was sitting by the lire on 
a low chair. There was not light enough to work by/ and 
yet there was too much light to ask for the lamp. It was 
a welcome moment of rest from all the labors that were her 
heritage. She liked it perhaps all the better that her hus- 
band and the older ones, who would talk or make demands 
upon her to be talked to, were out and she was quite free. 
To be alone now and then for a moment is sweet to a hard- 
worked woman who never is alone. Indeed, she was not 
alone now. Two of the little ones were on the rug by her 
feet. But they made no demands upon their mother, they 
played with each other, keeping up a babble of little voices, 
within reach of her hand to be patted on the head, within 
reach of her dress to cling to, should a wild beast suddenly 
appear or an ogre or a naughty giant. Thus, though they 
said nothing to each other, they were a mutual comfort and 
support, the mother to the children and the children to the 
mother. And if we could unveil the subtle chain of think- 
ing from about that tired and silent woman^s heart, the 
reader would wonder to see the lovely things that were 
there. But she was scarcely aware that she was thinking, 
and what she thought was not half definite enough to be 
put into words. A world of gentle musings, one linked 
into another, none of them separable from the rest, was 
about her in the firelight, in the darkness, the quiet and 
not ungrateful fatigue. She was not thinking at all she 
would have said. It was as though something revolved 
silently before her, gleaming out here and there a recollec- 
tion or realization. The warmth, the dimness, the quiet, 
lulled her in the midst of all her cares. She had thought 
of Osy till her head ached. How this dreadful misfortune 
could be averted; how he could be kept on at Marlborough; 
until, in the impossibility of finding any expedient, and the 
weariness of all things, her active thoughts had dropped. 
They dropped as her hands dropped, as she gave up work- 
ing, and for that moment of stillness drew her chair to the 
fire. There was nothing delightful to dwell upon in all 
that was around and about her. But God, whom in her 
voiceless way she trusted deeply, delivered the tired mother 


A POOH GENTLEMA]^. 


49 


from her cares for the moment, and fed her with angels’ 
■food as she sat without anything to say for herself, content 
by the fire. 

It was a moment before she realized what had happened 
when the door opened and the visitor swept in. She was 
not clever or ready, and her first consciousness that some 
one had come in was confused, so that she did not know 
liow to meet the emergency. She rose up hastily, all her 
sweet thoughts dispersing; and tlie children, who saw a 
shadowy tall figure and did not know what it was, shuffled 
to her side and laid hold of her dress with a horrible con- 
viction that the ogre who eats children on toast had come 
at last. Eich Mrs. Pen ton sweeping in had command of 
the scene better than poor Mrs. Pentoii had who was its 
principal figure. She saw the startled movement, the slim 
figure rising up from before the fire, in nervous uncer- 
tainty what to say or do, and the sudden retreat of the 
little ones from their place in the foreground, lighted by 
the warm glow of the fire_ to the shelter of their mother’s 
dress. The whole groitp had a timid, alarmed look which 
half piqued and half pleased Alicia. She rather liked the 
sensation of her own imposing appearance which struck 
awe, and yet was annoyed that any one should be afraid of 
her. She had no doubt what to do; she went forward into 
the region of the firelight and held out a hand. You 
don’t remember me,” she said, or perha2:)s it is only that 
you don’t see me. I am Alicia Penton. May I sit down 
here a little till my cousin comes in?” 

^^Mrs. Kussell Penton! oh, sit down, please. AVili you 
take this chair, or will you come nearer the fire: I am 
ashamed to have been so stupid, but I have not many vis- 
itors, and I never thought — will you take this chair, please?” 

” You never thought that I should be oner Oh, don’t 
think I blame you for saying so. It ‘is my fault; I have 
often felt it. I hope you will let by-gones be by-gones now, 
and look upon me as a friend. ” 

Horry,” said Mrs. Penton, ‘Sam and tell Martha to 
bring the lamp. ” She did not make any direct reply to 
her visitor’s overture. I am fond of -sitting in the fire- 
light,” she said. A little moment when there is nothing 
to do, when all is so quiet, is pleasant. But it is awkward 
when any one comes in, for we can not see each other. I 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


C ) 

hope Sir Walter is cjuite well/'" she added, after a mo- 
mentary pause. 

It was in the rich Mrs. Pen ton’s heart to cry out, Don’t 
ask me about Sir Walter; you don’t hope he is well; you 
wish he was dead, I know you must, you must!” These 
words rushed to her lips but she did not say them. There 
w^as in this mild interior no justification for such a speech. 
The absence of light threw a veil upon all the imperfec- 
tions of the place, and there was something in the gentle 
indifference of the mistress of the house, the absence of all 
feeling in respect to her visitor except a startled civility, 
which somehow humbled and silenced the proud woman. 
She had been, in spite of herself, excited about this meet- 
ing. She had come in with her heart beating, making 
overtures, which she never would hav^e made to a stranger. 
She did not know what she expected: either to be received 
with warm and astonished gratitude, or to be held at arm’s- 
length in offense. But this mild woman in the soft con- 
fusion of the firelit gloom did neither — had not evidently 
been thinking of her at all — had no feeling about her one 
w^ay or another. Mrs. Bussell Penton felt like one who 
had fallen from a height. She blushed unseen with a hot 
sensation of shame. To feel herself of so much less conse- 
quence than she expected, was extraordinary to her, a sen- 
sation such as she had rarely felt before. She felt even 
that the 2)ause she made before replying, which she herself 
felt so much, and during, which so many things vniit 
through her head, was lost upon the other, who was pre- 
occupied about the lamp, and anxious lest it should smell, 
and concerned with a hundred other things. 

My father is quite well,” said Alicia, with a little em- 
phasis; never saw him in better health. It is not 
thought necessary for him, he is so well, to go abroad this 
year.” 

The maid was at the door with the lamp, and there came 
in with her, exactly as Mrs. Penton feared, an odor of 
paraffin, that all -pervading unescapable odor which is now 
so familiar everywhere. She scarcely caught what her 
visitor said, so much more anxious was she about this. 
And in her mind there arose the anxious question, what to 
dor Was it better to say nothing about the smell, and 
hope that perhaps it might not be remarked: or confess 
the matter and make a commotion, calling Mrs. Penton ’s 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


51 


attention to it by sending it away.^ Even if she did the 
latter she could not send away the smell, which, alas! was 
here, anyhow, and would keep possession. She resolved 
desperately, therefore, to take no notice, to hope, perliaps, 
that it might not be remarked. This presumption, though 
poor Mrs. Penton was so far from suspecting it, completed 
the discomfiture of the great lady who had made sure tliat 
her visit would be a great event. 

I am very glad,'^^ said the mistress of the house at last, 
vaguely; Edward lias gone out for a walk, he will be in 
directly, and I am sure it will give him great pleasure to 
see you. The girls are out, too; there is not very much for 
them in the way of amusement at this time of the year. 

And then there was a pause, for neither of the ladies 
knew what to say. Mrs. Eussell Penton examined her 
hostess closely by the light of the malodorous lamp. J t 
was kinder to the poor lady than daylight would have been, 
and to the poor room, which, with the flickering firelight 
rising and falling, and the shade over the lamp, which left 
the walls and the furniture in a flattering obscurity, showed 
none of their imperfections to the stranger's eyes. And all 
that was apparent in Mrs. Penton was that her gown, 
which was of no particular color, but dark and not badly 
cut, hung about her slim figure with a certain grace, and 
that the curling twist of her hair, done up in that soft 
large knot on the back of her head, suited her much better 
than a more elaborate coiffure would have done. Rich 
Mrs. Penton looked closely at her poor relation, but her 
scrutiny was not returned. The thing that had now sprung 
into prominence in the mind of the mistress of the house 
was whether Martha would bring tea in nicely, and whether 
the cake would be found which was kept for such great oc- 
casions, without an appeal to herself for the keys. She 
was careful and burdened about many things; but in the 
very excess of her anxieties was delivered from more serious 
alarms. It did not occur to her to trouble herself with the 
questions which the children had asked each other so 
anxiously, which Mr. Penton was inquiring of himself with 
a beating heart, What could have brought Alicia Penton 
herer^^ 


52 


A POCK ' GENTLEMAif. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE YOIJXG AXD THE OLD. 

There was, however, no Jack of excitement when the 
rest of the family came in. The girls dazzled with the 
quick transition from the darkness outside to the light 
within, their eyes shining, their lips apart with breathless 
curiosity and excitement, and a thrill of interest which 
might have satisfied the requirements of any visitor; and 
after a little interval their father, pale, and somewhat 
breathless, too, whose expectation was not of anything 
agreeable, but rather of some new misfortune, of which 
perhaps his cousin had come to tell him. Edward Fenton 
did not pause to think that it was very unlikely that xVlicia 
would thus break in upon his retirement in order to tell 
him of some misfortune. The feeling was instinctive in 
his mind, because of long acquaintance with defeat and 
failure, that every new thing must mean further trouble. 
He was always ready to encounter that in his depressed 
way. He came into the atmosphere which was tinged with 
the smell of paraffin, the discomfort of which was habitual 
to him, added to the undercurrent of irritation in his mind, 
and with the feeling that there was already a crowd of peo- 
ple in the room, where probably no one was necessary but 
himself. Alicia Penton had long, long ceased to be an 
object of special interest to him; nobody now was of par- 
ticular interest to Mr. Penton in that or any sentimental 
way. The peoj^le who were about him now either belonged 
to him, in which case they gave him a great deal of alto- 
gether inevitable trouble'; or else they did not belong to 
him, and were probably more or less antagonistic — wanting 
things from him, entertainment, hospitality, subscriptions, 
something or other which he did not wish to give. Such 
were the two classes into which the human race was divided; 
but if there was a debatable ground between the two, a 
scrap of soil upon which a human foot could be 2)lanted, 
Sir Walter and his daughter were its possible inhabitants. 
They belonged to him, too — in a way ; they were antagonis- 
tic, too — in a way. Both the other halves of the world 
were more or less united in them. 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


53 


He came forward into the light, \Hiich, however, re- 
vealed his knickerbockers and muddy boots more distinctly 
than his face. It is a long, time, ^Mie said, ‘‘since we 
have met. 

“ Yes, Edward, it is a long time: I have been saying so 
to your wife. The girls have grown up since I saw them 
last: they were little girls then, and now they are —grown 

lip — 

When emotion reaches a high strain and becomes im- 
passioned the power of expression is increased, and elo- 
quence comes; but on the lower levels of feeling, suppressed 
excitement and commotion of mind often find utterance in 
tlie merest commonplace. 

Y^es, they are grown up — the boy, too,’’ said Mr. Pen- 
ton, under the same spell. 

She cast a glance upward to where, beyond the lamp, on 
his mother’s side of the table, Wat appeared, a lengthy 
shadow, perhaps the most uncongenial of all. She made a 
slight forward inclination of her head in recognition of his 
presence, but no more. The girls she had shown a certain 
pleasure in. They stood together, with that pretty look of 
being but one which a pair of sisters often have, so brightly 
curious and excited, scanning her with such eager eyes that 
it would have been difficult not to respond to their frank 
interest. But Mrs. Penton could not tolerate Wat; his 
very presence was an offense to her, and the instinctive way 
in which he went over to his mother’s side, and stood there 
in the gloom looking at the visitor over the, shade of the 
lamp. She would have none of him, but she turned with 
relief to the girls. 

“ I am ashamed to ask the question,” she said, “ but 
which of you is my godchild? You seem about the same 
age. ” 

It was a vexation that it should be the other one — the 
one who was like her mother, not the impetuous darker 
girl whose eyes devoured the great lady who was her cousin 
— who replied, “ It is I who am Ally. There is only a 
year between us. We are more together than any of the 
others.” 

“ Ally I” said Mrs. Russell Penton, with a little scorn. 

And what is your name?” 

“ I am Anne. ” 

She should be xAnna,” said her mother, “ which is far 


54 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 


prettier; but she likes what is shortest best. There are so 
many of them. None of them have their full names. 
Some families make a great stand on that — to give every 
one their full name. 

It is a matter of taste/^ said the visitor, coldly. 

She was doubly, but most unreasonably, annoyed after 
her first moment of interest to find that it was the wrong 
sister who was her godchild, and that even she did not bear 
the name that had been given her. It seemed a want of 
respect, not only to herself, but to the family, in which 
there had been Alicias for countless years. 

I hope my uncle is wellr^^ said Mr. Fenton, after an- 
other embarrassed pause. Sir Walter was not his uncle, 
but it was a relic of the old days, when he was a child of 
the house, that the younger cousin was permitted to call 
the elder so. I heard you were not going away this year. 

No; the doctors think he may stay at home, as there 
is every prospect of a mild winter. Of course, if it became 
suddenly severe we could take him away at a moments 
notice.'’^ 

Of course, Edward Fenton said. However severe the 
weather might become neither he nor his could be taken 
away at a moment^s notice. He could not help feeling 
conscious of the difference, but with a faint smile breaking 
upon his depression. Alicia did not mean it, he was sure, 
but it seemed curious that she should put the contrast so 
very clearly before him. There was a little whispering 
going on between the mother and daughters about the tea. 
Tea was a substantial meal at the Hook, and the little 
ornamental repast at five o^ clock was unusual, and made a 
little flurry in the household. Mrs. Fenton had to give 
Anne certain instructions about a little thin bread-and- 
butter and the cake. She thought that Edward, who was 
keeping up the conversation, screened off these whisperings 
from his cousin's notice; but as a matter of fact Alicia was 
keenly alive to all that w^as taking place, and felt a sharper 
interest in the anxiety about Martha's appearance than in 
anything Edward was saying. You still keep the villa at 
Cannes?" he went on. 

‘‘Yes; up to this time it has been a necessity for my 
father; but I have not seen him so well for years." 

“I am very glad to hear it," Mr. Fenton said, with a 
little emphasis. He had to stand aside as he spoke, for 


A POOR GENTLEMAN, 


55 


Martha arrived, rather embarrassed, with her tray, for 
which there was no habitual place,* and the girls had to 
clear the. books and ornaments off a little table while she 
waited. He was used to these domestic embarrassments, 
and it must be said for him that he did the best he could to 
screen them even at the sacrifice of himself. He drew a 
chair near to his cousin and sat down, thus doing what he 
could to draw her keen attention from these details. ‘-It 
is long since I have seen Pen ton, he said. “ I hear you 
have made many improvements.^^ 

“ Nothing that you \vould remark — only additions to the 
comfort of the house. It used to be rather cold, you will 
remember. 

“I don^t think I knew what cold w^as in those old days,""^ 
he said, with a. slight involuntary shiver, for the door had 
just opened once more to admit the cake, and a draught 
came in from the always open hall, 

“ We have had it now warmed throughout,^ ^ said Mrs. 
Bussell Penton, wdth a slight momentary smile; “ and w'e 
are thinking of fitting it up with the electric light. My 
husband has a turn for playing wdth science. It is a great 
deal of trouble at first, but very little afteiwvard, I believe: 
and very convenient, without any of the drawbacks of 
lamps orgas.^^ 

She could not but turn her head as she spoke, to the large 
crystal lamp upon the table, which filled the room with 
something more than light. The tea had been arranged by 
this time, and poor Mrs. Penton had begun to pour it out, 
but not yet w^as her mind disengaged from the many anxi- 
eties involved — for the tea was poor. She shook her head 
and made a little silent appeal to the girls as she poured 
out the first almost colorless cup. And then there W'as a 
jug of milk, but no cream. This necessitated another 
whispering, and the swdft dispatch of Ally to fetch what 
was wanted. Mrs. Bussell Penton looked on at all this, 
and took in every detail as if it had been a little scene of a 
corned}’ enacted for her amusement; but there was in the 
amusement an acrid touch. The smile was sharp, like 
IthuriePs S2)ear, and cut all those innocent little cobwebs 
away. 

I have no doubt you will make it very complete,^ ^ 
Edward Penton said, with a sigh. There was an assumed 
proprietorship about all she said, which w^as like cutting 


56 


A POOR GENTLEMAK. 


him off from the succession, that only possibility which lay 
in his future. And yet they could not cut him off, he said, 
to himself. 

Is this tea for mer How very kind! but I never take 
it at this hour,^^ said Alicia, putting up her gloved hand 
wdth a little gesture of refusal. It smote, if not her heart, 
yet her conscience, a little to see the look that passed be- 
tween the mother and the girls. Had Russell seen that 
scene he would assuredly have retired into a corner, and 
relieved himself with a whistle, before asking for a cup and 
eating half the cake, which was what he would have done 
regardless of consequences. Rendered compunctious by 
this thought, Alicia added, hastily, You must bring the 
girls up to see the house; they ought to know it; and I 
hope I may see more of them in the time to come.^^ 

“ Their mother, I have no doubt, will be pleased, said 
Edward Penton, vaguely. 

. Indeed, you must not think of me,^^ his wife said; she 
had not taken offense. . It was not in her mild nature to 
suppose that any one could mean to slight or insult her; 
but she was a little annoyed by the unnecessary waste of 
tea. I am a poor walker, you know, Edward; and al- 
ways occupied with the children; but I am sure the girls 
would like it very much. It would be very nice for them 
to make acquaintance — Wat could walk up with them if 
you were busy. Especially in the winter, she said, with 
a little conciliatory smile toward the great lady, “ I am al- 
ways looking out for a little change for the girls. 

Then we shall consider that as settled,^^ said Alicia. 
She rose, in all the splendor of her velvet and furs, and 
the whole family rose with her. A thought ran through 
their minds — a little astonished shock — a question. Was it 
possible that this was all she had come for? It was a very 
inadequate conclusion to the excitement and expectation in 
all their minds. Mrs. Penton alone did not feel this shock. 
She did not think the result inadequate; a renewal of ac- 
quaintance, an invitation to the girls, probably the opening 
to them of a door into society and the great world. She 
came foovard with what to her was warmth and enthu- 
siasm. ‘‘ It is very kind of you to have called,^^ she said, 
I am truly grateful, for I make few calls myself, and 1 
can'^t wonder if I fall out of people^s recollection. It is a 
great thing for a woman like you to come out of your way 


A POOR GENTLEMA]S\ 


57 


to be kinci to Ed ward little girls. I am very grateful to 
you, and I will never forget Poor Mrs. Penton gave 

her rich namesake a warm pressure of the hand, looking at 
her with her mild, large-lidded gray eyes, lit up by a smile 
which transformed her face. Not a shadow of doubt, not 
the faintest cloud of consciousness that Alicia^s motive had 
been less than angelic, was in her look or in her thoughts. 

Rich Mrs. Penton faltered and shrunk before this look 
of gratitude. She knew that, far from deserving it, there 
had been nothing but contempt in her thoughts toward this 
simple woman who had been to her like a bit of a comedy. 
She withdrew her hand as quickly as possible from that 
grateful clasp. . 

You give me credit — that I doiPt deserve,^ ^ she said. 

I — I came to speak to my cousin on business. It was 
really a — I won^t call it a selfish motive, that brought me. 
But it will give me real pleasure to see the girls. 

To divine the hidden meaning of this little speech, 
which was entirely apologetic, occupied the attention of the 
anxious family suddenly pushed back into eagerness again 
by the intimation of her real errand. It was not all for 
nothing, then! It was not a mere call of civility! Mr. 
Penton, who had felt something like relief when she rose, 
consoled by the thought that tliere could not at least be any 
new misfortune to intimate to him, fell again into that 
state of melancholy anticipation from which he had been 
roused, while the young ones bounded upward to the height 
of expectation. Something was coming — something new^! 
It did not much matter to thenpwhat it was. They looked 
on with great excitement while their father conducted his 
cousin across the hall to his book-room, as it was called. 
They were not given to fine names at Penton Hook. It 
had been called the library in former days. But it was a 
little out at elbows, like the rest of the house — the damp had 
affected the bindings, the gilding was tarnished, the russia 
leather dropping to pieces, a smell of mustiness and decay, 
mucli conte!ided against, yet indestructible, was in the 
place. And it was no longer the library, but only the book- 
room. The door of the drawing-room being left open, the 
family watched with interest indescribable the tw^o figures 
crossing the hall. Mrs. Russell Penton, though she had 
not been there for so many years, knew her w^ay, wdiich 
particular interested the girls greatly, and opened a new 


58 


A POOR GEKTLEMAK. 


vista to them, into the past. Mrs. Pentoii, for her par^^ 
knew well enough all about Alicia, but she was not jealous. 
She shivered slightly as she saw the great lady's skirt sweep 
the hall. 

Oh, Anne,^' she whispered, ‘‘ tell Martha to bring a 
cloth and wipe it. A velvet dress! You children, with 
your wet feet, you are enough to break any one^s heart. 
What are the mats put there for, I should like to knowr'^ 

- Oh, what do you think of her, mother: Did you like 
her? Don^t you think she meant to be kind: Do you 
think we must go?^^ 

‘^Certainly you must go,'' said Mrs. Penton. What 
do I think of her? This is not the first time I have seen 
Alicia Penton, that you should ask me such a question. 
Yes, yes, you must go. You ought to know that house 
better than any house in the country, and it is only right 
that you should first go into society there." 

Do you think Cousin Alicia will ask us to parties? Do 
you think she really meant — really, without thinking of 
anything else — to be kind to Ally and me?" 

Anne, I am sorry that you should take such notions. 
What object could she have but kindness," said Mrs. Pen- 
ton, with mild conviction, for coming here? It is all 
very well to talk of business with your father. Yes, no 
doubt she has business with your father, or she would not 
have said so; but I am very sure she must have suffered 
from the estrangement, I always thought she must suffer. 
Men do not think of these things, but women do. I feel 
sure thatishe has talked her father over at last, and that we 
are all to be friends again. ^ Sir Walter is an old man; he 
must want to make up differences. What a dreadful thing 
it would be to die without making it up!" 

“Was there any real quarrel?" said Wat, coming for- 
ward with his hands in his pockets. “ She may be kind 
enough, mother, that fine lady of yours, but she does not 
like me." 

“ How can she know whether she likes you or not? She 
doesn't know you, Wat." 

“ She hates me, all the same. I have never done any- 
thing to her that I know of. I suppose I did wrong to be 
born." 

“If it were not you it would be some one else," said 
Mrs. Penton; “ but, children! oh, don't talk in this hard 


A POOR GENTLEMAJiT. 


59 


way. Think how her brothers died, and that she has no 
children. And the house she loves to go away from her, 
and nothing to be hers! I do not think I could bear it if 
it was me. Make haste, Anne, oh, make haste, and get 
Martha to wipe up the hall. And, Horry, you may as well 
have the thin bread and butter. If I had only known that 
Mrs. Russell Penton never took tea — 

About this failure Mrs. Penton was really concerned; it 
was not only a waste of the tea and of that nice bread and 
l)utter (which Horry enjoyed exceedingly), but it was a sort 
of a sham, enacted solely for the benefit of the visitor, 
which was objectionable in other points of view besides 
that of extravagance. It gave her a sense of humiliation 
as if she had been masquerading in order to deceive a 
stranger who was too quick of wit to be deceived. But 
Mrs. Penton neither judged her namesake, nor was suspi- 
cious of her, nor was she even very curious as the children 
were, as to the subject of the interview which was going on 
in the book-room. She feared nothing from it, nor did she 
expect anything. She was not ready to imagine that any- 
thing could happen. Sir Walter might die, of course, and 
that would make a change; but she had Mrs. Russell Pen- 
ton’s word for it that Sir Walter was better than usual; 
and in the depth of her experience of that routine of com- 
mon life which kept on getting a little worse, but had never 
heen broken by any surjDrising incidents, she had little faith 
in things happening. She felt even that she would not be 
surprised for her part if Sir Walter should never die. He 
was eighty-five, and he might live to be a hundred. 
Though they had not met for years she saw nothing extraor- 
dinary in the fact that Alicia Penton had come to talk 
over some business matters with her cousin. It was partly 
indolence of mind and partly because she had so much that 
was real to occupy her that she had no time for imaginary 
cases. And so while the girls hung about the doors in ex- 
citement unable to settle to anything, curious to see their 
great relation pass out again, and to watch her getting into 
her carriage, and pick up any information that might be 
attainable about the object of her mission, Mrs. Penton 
with a word of rebuke to their curiosity, took Horry up- 
stairs to the nursery and thence retired to her own room to 
make her modest little toilet for the evening. There was 
no dinner to dress for, but the mother of the household 


CO 


A POOK GEKTLEMAK. 


thought it was a good thing as a rule and example that she 
should put on a different gown for tea. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

THE PROPOSAL. 

Alicia was a little subdued when she found herself in 
the old library, the room she had known so well in other 
circumstances. The air of decay, the unused books which 
she had borrowed and read and "talked over, Edward being 
a little more disposed that way than her brothers, and 
ready to give her advice about her reading, and receive 
with reverence her comments which the others took no in- 
terest in, impressed her in spite of herself. Her eyes turned 
to the corner in which there had been a collection of the 
poets more accessible and readable than any that existed at 
Penton, where the books were all of a ponderous kind. 
They were still there, the same little volumes, which it had 
been so easy to carry about, which had been brought from 
the Hook in Edward’s pocket, which she had taken with 
her in the boat and read in the shady corners under the 
trees among the water-lilies. She could see they were still 
there, the binding a little tarnished, the line broken, as if 
several volumes were lost or absent. Who read them now? 
She gave but one glance and saw everything, then turned 
her back upon that corner. There was a table in the win- 
dow which had not been there formerly, a table covered 
with books and papers such as she was sure Edward Penton 
did not amuse himself with. It would be tlie boy whose 
name had non been mentioned, whom she had taken no 
notice of, yet of whom, with a jealous, angry consciousness, 
she had felt the presence through all. 

‘‘You have made few changes,” she said, involuntarily, 
as she turned the chair he had placed for her half round, 
so as not to see the shelf with its range of little volumes. 
The book-room was perhaps the most comfortable in the 
house, but for that faint mustiness. The walls were well 
lined with books. It had been a good collection twenty 
years ago, and though there had been few additions made, 
it was still a good collection, and the fading of the gilding 
and a little raggedness of binding here and there did not in- 
jure the appearance of the well-covered walls. Mr. Penton 


A POOli r^pyTLEMAN. 


61 


lightei] the two caudles on the writing-table, which seemed 
to add two little inquisitive eldritch spectators, blinking 
their little flames at the human actors in this drama, and 
watching all they did and said. 

‘‘ No, there are no changes to speak of; I have had other 
things to think of tlian making changes,^ ^ he said, with a 
little abrujitness, perhaps thinking that she was making a 
contrast between the unalterable circumstances of his pov- 
erty and all that had been done in the great house. But 
she had no such meaning, nor did she understand the tone 
of almost reproach in which he spoke. 

You must have had a great deal to do, with your fam- 
ily; but there are cares which many people count as happi- 
ness.'^ 

i am making no complaint,^’ he said. 

And then there was a pause. There had been struck a 
wrong note which rang jarring into the air, and made it 
more difticult to begin again. 

‘‘ You must have been surprised, she said, ‘‘ to find me 
here to-day. 

“ I donT know that I was surprised; perhaps it was 
more surprising, if I may speak my mind, Alicia, that so 
long a time has passed without seeing you liere. I never 
harmed you, that I know.^^ 

No,^^ she said, you never harmed us; itTias been a 
miserable mistake altogether. For years past I have felt 
it to be so; but we are the slaves of our own mistakes. 1 
never seemed to have the courage to take the first step to 
make it right. 

She had neither meant to say this, nor in cold blood 
would she have allowed it to be true; but she was carried 
away by the subtle influence of the familiar place, by the 
sight of the books she used to borrow, and many an inde- 
finable recollection and influence besides. 

He gave a little short laugh. Ifliat is the second time 
to-night,''^ he said, ‘‘that I have heard the same thing 
said.'’^ If she had but known who the other was who had 
said it, the old man breaking stones, who had been so glad 
of his twopence I Mr. Pen ton could not restrain the brief 
comment of that laugh. 

‘‘It does not matter who says it,^^ said Alicia, “it is 
true. A thing is done in passion, in misery ; and then it is 
hard to descend from our pride, or to acknowledge our- 


A POOR OEXTLEMAN. 


selves wrong. And you will think, perhaps/ " she added, 
quickly, with rising color, that it is a selfish motive that 
brings me here to-day?'’^ 

Edward Penton shook his head. selfish motive 

would mean that I could be of use to you; and I doiPt 
think that is very probable, ^Mie said. 

Mrs. Eussell Penton colored still more. Edward,^^ 
she said, faltering a little, it is curious, when there is an 
object on which one has set one's heart, how one is led on 
to do things that only in the doing appear in their true 
colors. I have let you think I came to renew old friend- 
ship— to see your children, your girls." She grew more 
and more agitated as she went on, and there came out in 
her a hundred tones and looks of the old Alicia, who had 
seemed to him to have no connection with this mature dig- 
nified self-important woman — looks and tones whicli moved 
him as the old books in the corner, and all. the associations 
of the place, had moved her. 

‘Mt does not matter why you have come; I am glad you 
have come, anyhow; and if I can do anything — " he made 
a pause, and laughed again, this time at himself. It 
doesn't seem very likelV;, looking at you and at me; but 
you know I was alwa^^s your faithful servant," he said. 

There is only one thing 1 have to say for n\yself, Ed- 
ward — I wotild not allow the proposal to be made to you by 
any one but me." 

What is it?" he asked. There was a proposal then, 
and it was something to benefit her! Edward Penton's 
bosom swelled with perhaps the first pleasurable sense of 
his own position which he had felt for years. Penton had 
always been an excitement to him, but there had been little 
pleasure in it. For a moment, how'ever, now, he felt him- 
self the old, the young Edw^ard Penton, who had been the 
faithful servant of Alicia. He could not imagine anything 
which he could have it in his power to do for her, but still 
less could he imagine anything which he would refuse. 

She went on with a hesitation which was very far from 
being natural to her. You know," she said, “ that when 
my father dies, which is an event that can not be far dis- 
tant, I shall have to give up — the only home I have ever 
known. " 

His attention was fully aroused now. He looked at her 
across the gleam of the inquisitive candles, with a startled 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 63 

look. Was she going to ask him to give up his inheritance? 
He was too much surprised to speak. 

You will think this an extraordinary beginning; but it 
is true. I have never lived anywhere else. My marriage, 
you know, fortunately, has made no difference. Of course 
I am my father^s heir in everything but what is entailed. 
It has occurred to us — we have thought that perhaps — 
What have you thought, Alicia:^" he cried, with a 
sudden, sharp remonstrance in his tone; that I was just, 
as in former times, ready for anything that you — What 
have you thought? — that I was in the same position as of 
old — "that there was no one to consult, no one to consider — 
except my devotion to you:’^ 

You mistake me altogethftr,^^ she cried. Your devo- 
tion to me — which no doubt is ended long ago — was never 
taken into consideration at all. We thought of an entirely 
different motive when we talked it over, my father and L 
You will remember that I am only asking a question, Ed- 
ward. I wanted to ask only if a proposal might be made 
to you, that was all."^^ 

“ And what was the motive which you supposed likely to 
move me?’^ he said. 

He had risen up from his seat, and came and stood by 
the mantel-piece, leaning on it, and looking down upon her. 
There was a great commotion in his mind — a commotion of 
the old and of the new. He had grown soft and tender a 
few minutes before, feeling himself ready to do anything 
for her which a lady could ask of a man. But now, when 
it appeared to him that she had gone far beyond that 
sphere, and was about to ask from him the sacrifice of 
everything — his property, his inheritance, the fortune of 
his children — a sudden hot fountain of indignation seemed 
to have risen witliin the man. He felt as the knight did in 
the poem when his lady lightly threw her glove among the 
lions — an impulse to give her what she asked, to fling it in 
her face, doing her behest in contempt of the unwomanly 
impulse which had tempted her to strain her power so far. 
This was how he felt. No reasonable sentiment of self- 
defense, but a burning temptation to take his heirship, his 
hopes, all that made the future tolerable, and fling them 
with an insult in her face. 

Ed ward, she said, I came to you in confidence that 
you would hear me — that you would let me speak plainly 


64 


A POOK (r.EN T L K M A iS". 


without oft'ense; I mean she said, with agitation. 

But we have both come to a reasonable age, and surely 
we may talk to each otiiei without wounding each other — 
about circumstances which everybody can see/^ 

Speak freely, Alicia. I only want to know what you 
wish, and what there is in me to justify the proposal, wdiat- 
ever it may be, that ypu have come to make. ’ ^ 

I have begun wrong, ^ she said, with a gesture of dis- 
appois^fcment. It is difficult to find the right w^ords. 
Will you be angry if I say it is no secret that 3^011 — that w'e 
— ^for Heaven^s sake don^t think I mean to hurt you— 
plainly, that T, with all m3" father can leave, will be in a 
better position for keeping up Pen con than 3-011 who are the 
heir-at-law.^^ 

He stood for some time with his arm on the mantel-piece 
makiug no answer, looking down at the faint redness of a 
fire which had almost burned out. 

So that’s all,” he said at last, with the tremulous note 
of a sudden laugh; and drawing a chair close up to it, be- 
gan, to gather together the scraps of half-consumed wood 
into a blaze. All that he produced was a very feeble mo- 
mentaiy glimmer, which leaped up and then died out. He 
threw down the poker with another short laugh. Signifi- 
cant,” he said, symbolical! so that is all, Alicia? You 
are sure you want no more?” 

‘‘ You have not heard me out: 3^11 don’t understand. 
Edward, I know the first effect must be painful, but every 
w"ord 3"Ou will listen to will lessen that impression. I am, 
if you will remember, a little older than 3-011 are.” 

We w-ere born, I think, in the same year.” 

That makes a w-oman much older. I told 3-011 so when 
it meant more. And I am a w-oman, more feeble of consti- 
tution than 3^011 are — not likely to live so long.” 

On the contrary, if you will allow me to interrupt you; 
w"omen, I believe, as a rule, are longer-lived than men. ” 

She drew back with a pained and irritated look. ” ’^'ou 
make me feel like a law-3"er supporting a w-eak case. It 
was not in this W"a3^ that I wanted to talk it over with you, 
Edward.” 

To talk over the sacrifice of everything I have ever 
looked to — my birthright, and the prospects of my chil- 
dren. This is rather a large afiair to be talked over be- 


A POOK GENTLEMAi?'. 


65 


tween you and me after five- o’ clock tea, Alicia, over a 
dying fire.” 

Then,” she said, it would have been better I had not 
meddled at all, as my father always said. He thought it 
should have been made a business proposal only, through a 
solicitor. But I — I, like a foolish woman — remembering 
that we had once been dear friends, and feeling that I had 
been guilty of neglect, and perhaps unkindness — I would 
not have anything said till I had come myself, till I had 
made my little overture of reconciliation, till I — ” 

If there is to be frankness on one side there should be 
frankness on both. Till you had put forth the old infiu- 
ence, which once would have made me do anything — give 
up anything — to please you.” 

You said,” she cried, provoked and humiliated, ‘^not 
five minutes since, though I did not wish it — never thought 
of it — that you were my faithful servant still!” 

Yes,” he said; and do you know what I should like 
to do now? You have come to ask me for my inheritance 
as you might ask for a flower out of my garden — if there 
were any! I should like to fling you your Penton into 
jour apron — into your face — and see you carry it off, and 
point at you, like — you were always fond of poetry, and you 
will remember — the fellow that jumped among the lions for 
a glove — only a glove: only his life, don’t you know!” 

It was not often that Edward Penton gave way fco pas- 
sion, and it was brutal, this that he said: but for the mo- 
ment he had lost all control of himself. 

She rose up hurriedly from her chair. That w^as no 
true man!” she cried. Supposing that the woman w^as a 
fool too, she used him only according to his folly to show 
how false he was. ” She paused again, breathless, her heart 
beating with excitement and indignation. I am not ask- 
ing you for your inheritance: I came to ask you — whether 
an arrangement might be proposed to you which should be 
for your advantage as well as mine. Let us speak frankly, 
as you say. I am not a girl, to be driven away by an iri- 
.<?ult, which comes badly — oh, very badly! — from you, Ed- 
ward. If I have wounded you, you have stung me, bitterly; 
so let us be quits.” She looked at him with a smile of 
pain. You have hit hardest, after all; you ought to be 
pleased with that!” 

I beg your pardon, Alicia,” he said. 


06 


A POOR GENTLE]\IA^^. 

Oh, it is not necessary. It was business, and not sen 
ximerit, that brought me here. And this is the brutal truth*. 
Edward — like what you have just said to me. You are 
poor, and I am well off. Pen ton w^ould be a millstone 
round your neck; you could not keep it up. Whereas to 
me it is my home — almost the thing I love best. Will you 
come to terms with us to set aside the entail and let me 
have my home? The terms shall be almost what you like. 
It can be done directly. It will be like realizing a fortune 
which may not be yours for years. I ask no gift. Do you 
think I am not as proud as you are? I would not ask you 
for a flower out of your garden, as you say, much less yoiu*^ 
property — your inheritance! Ah, your inheritance! which 
twenty years ago, when we used to be here together, was 
no more likely to be yours — ! If we begin to talk of these 
things where shall we end, I wonder? she added, with 
another pale and angry smile. You understand now 
what I mean? . And 1 have nothing more to say.^^ 

Wait a moment, he said; I am not sure that I do 
understand you now. It is not what I thought, apparently, 
and I beg your pardon. I thought it was something that 
would be between you and me. But if I hear right, it is a 
business transaction you propose — something to be done for 
an equivalent. — a bargain — a sale and barter — a — 

Yes, that is what I mean; perhaps my father was 
right, and the solicitors were the people to manage it, not 
you and me — 

To manage it — or not to manage it, as may turn out. 
Yes, I think that would be the better way. These sort of 
people can say what they like to each other and it never 
hurts, whereas you and I — Are you really going? I hope 
you are very well wrapped up, for the night is cold. But 
for this little squabble, which is a pity, which never ought 
to have been — ' ^ 

I can not think, Edward, that it was my fault. 

They say that ladies always think tliat,^^ he said with 
a smile, “ otherwise this first visit after — how long is it? — 
went off fairly well, donT you think? At forty-five, witli 
a wife and children, a man is no longer ready to throw any- 
thing away; but otherwise when it comes to business — 

^‘1 was very foolish not to let it be done in the formal 
way,^^ she said, with an uneasy blush and intolerable sense 
of the sarcasm in his tone. But she would not allow her- 


A POOR GEKTLEMA^n^ 


G7 


self to remain under this disadvantage. Shall I tell my 
iathor that you will receive his proposal and give it your 
consideration?^^ 

My consideration? Surely; my best consideration/’' 
die replied, with still the same look of sarcastic coolness, 
which anytlxing Sir Walter Penton suggests would natur- 
a,lly command from his — successor. I can not use a milder 
word than that. My position/ Mie added, with gravity, 
is not one which I sought or had any hand in bringing 
about: therefore I can have no responsibility for the 
changes that have happened in the last twenty years/ ^ 

It is I who must beg your pardon now. You are quite 
right, of course, and there was no fault of yours. Good- 
night and good-bye. I hope you will at least think of me 
charitably if we should not meet again. 

We shall certainly, I hope, meet again,^^ he said, open- 
ing the door for her. The girls will not forget your in- 
vitation to them. They have never seen Penton, and they 
take an interest, which you will not wonder at — 

Oh, I donT wonder — at that or anything,^^ she added, 
in a lower tone; and, as ill-luck would have it, Wat, stand- 
ing full in the light of the lamp which lighted the hall, tali 
in his youthful awkwardness, half antagonistic, half anx- 
ious to recommend himself, stood straight before her, so 
that she could not, without rudeness, refuse his attendance 
to the door where the carriage lamps were shining and the 
bays pawing impatiently. She gave his father a look of 
mingled misery and de|>recation as she went out of sight. 
He alone understood why it was she could not bear the sight 
of his boy. But though her eyes expressed this anguish, 
her mouth held another meaning. “You will hear from 
Mr. Rochford in a day or two,^^ she said, as she drove 
away. 

He sent her back a smile of half -sarcastic acquiescence 
still; but then Edward Penton went back to his library and 
shut himself in, and disregarded all the appeals that vrere 
made to him during the next hour, to come to tea. First 
the bell: then Ally tapping softly, “ Tea is ready."'' Then 
Anne's quicker summons, “ Mother wants to know if we 
are to wait for you?" Then the little applicant, whom 
he was least able to resist, little Mary, drumming very low 
down upon the lower panels of the door, with a little song 
of “ Fader! fader!" To all this Mr. Penton turned a dull 


68 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


ear. He had been angry — he had been cut to the quick t 
that his poverty should be thus thrown back upon him— 
that he should be expected to make merchandise of his in- 
heritance, to give up for money the house of his fathers, 
the only fit residence for the head of the family! All this^ 
gave a sharp and keen pang, and roused every instinct of 
pride and self-assertion. But when the thrill of solitude 
and reason fell on all that band of suddenly unchained 
demons, and he thought of the privations round him — the 
shabbiness of the house; the damp; the poor wife, wha 
could not now at all hold up her head among the county 
people; the girls, who were little nobodies and saw nothing; 
Wat, whose young life was spoiled: and Osy — Osy! about 
whom some determination must be come to. To see a way 
out of all that and not to accept it: for pride^s sake to shut 
up, not only himself, that was a small matter, but the chil- 
dren, to poverty! The fire went out; the inquisitive can- 
dles blinked and spied ineffectually, making nothing of the 
man who sat there wrapped up within himself, his face 
buried in his hands. He was chilled almost to ice when 
his wife stole in and drew him away to the fire in the draw- 
ing-room, from which the young ones withdrew to make 
place for him, with looks full of wonder and awe. And 
then it was, when he had warmed himself and the ice had 
melted, that he drew the family council together, and laid 
before them, old and young, the proposal which Alicia. 
Penton had come to make. 


CHAPTER IX. 

FAMILY COUNSELS. 

Mr. Penton drew his chair toward the fire, which was 
not a usual thing for him to do. When he felt chilly he 
went to the book-room, where in the evening there was 
always a log burning. In the drawing-room it was the rule 
that nobody should approach the fire too closely; Mr. Pen- 
ton said it was not good for the children, it gave them bad 
habits, and it scorched their cheeks and injured their eyes. 
The moral of which probably was that, as there were so 
many of them, they could not all get near it, and therefore 
all had to hold back. 

But this evening everything was out of rule. The little. 


A POOR GEISTTLEMAI^’. 


69 


ones had been sent to bed. The basket of stockings was 
pushed aside on the table. Mrs. Penton indeed, unable to 
bear that breach of use and wont, had taken a stocking out 
of it furtively and pulled it up on her arm. It was a gray 
stocking, with immense healthy holes the size of half a 
crown. She could not get at her needle and worsted with- 
out disturbing the family parliament, but at least she could 
measure the holes and decide how best to approach them, 
anrl from what side. ^V^alter had placed himself on the 
other side of the fire, opposite his father, feeling instinctive- 
ly that his interests must be specially in question; the girls 
filled up the intervals between their mother and Wat on the 
one side, their father on the other. The fire had been 
stirred into a blaze and danced cheerfully upon all the 
young faces. The lamp with its smell of parafiin was put 
aside too, as if it were being punished and put in the cor- 
ner, for which vindicative step, considering how it smelled 
and smoked, there was good cause. 

‘‘You will understand,'^ said Mr. Penton, “that the 
visit we have just received must have had some special 
motive. 

“ r donTsee why you should be so sure of that, Edward,^^ 
said Mrs. Penton, “ unless she said something. It might 
be just civility. Why notr^^ 

“ It was not just civility; I knew that from the first.*^ 

“ My dear, perhaps you know your own family best: but 
if it had been one of mine I should have thought it quite 
natural: to see the children, and hear how we are getting 
on. 

To* this Mr. Penton made no reply; the idea of some one 
coming to see how he and his family were “ getting on 
did not gratify him as perhaps it ought to have done. 

“ I think,"^ said Ally, softly, “ that Aunt Alicia came 
out of kindness, papa.'’^ 

“ To herself, I supjDOse,^^ he said, quickly; then added, 

“ From her point of view it might a|)pear kindness to us 
too. 

There was again a pause, and they all waited with grow- 
ing curiosity to know what it was. 

Mr. Penton sat in silence, balancing himself in his chair, 
knitting his brows as he gazed into the fire. Mrs. Penton 
pulled the stocking furth^er up upon her arm and made a 
searching study of the holes. 


70 


A TOOK GENTLEMAN. 


You ali know/^ he said at length, that Penton has 
been a long time in our family, and that 1 am the heir of 
entail. 

At this.Walter moved a little, almost impatiently, in his 
chair, with a quick start, Mdiich ho restrained at once, as if 
he would have interfered. And he did feel disposed to in- 
terfere — to say that it was he who was the heir of entail. 
His father’s priority of course was understood, but it 
seemed hardly worth while to insist upon it. Nevertheless 
after the first impulse Walter restrained himself. 

“I,” said his father, rather sharply, with a certain 
comprehension and resentment of the impulse, of which, 
however, he w^as not minded to take any notice, am the 
heir of entail. It is tied down upon me, and can’t, in 
the nature of things, go to any one else.” 

Unless the law w'ere to be changed,” interrupted Anne, 
remembering too well the discussion of the morning. 

He waved his hand with an expression of impatience. 

We need not take any such hazard into consideration; it 
is most improbable, and quite out of the question. As 
things are, I am the heir of entail. That has been, I don’t 
doubt, a thorn in Sir Walter’s flesh. He can’t alienate an 
acre, nor, at his time of life, in honor, cut down a tree.” 

J have always said it was hard upon him,” Mrs. Pen- 
ton observed, in an undertone. 

They all gave her a look— the look of partisans, to whom 
any objection is an offense — all except Anne, wdio kept up 
an attitude of impartiality throughout the wUole. 

I don’t know why he has put off so long if he had the 
mind to make such an offer. If it had been furthei* off 
perhaps I might have been more tempted; but as it is — 
Alicia wants me to join with her father and break the en- 
tail.” 

The female part of the committee did not immediately 
see the weight of this statement. It took some time to 
make them understand: but Walter saw it in a moment, 
and sprung to his feet in quick resentment. Father, of 
course you will not listen to it for a moment!” he cried. 

^‘To break the entail?” said the mother; ‘‘but I 
thought nothing could do that, Edward. ” 

“ Except,” said Anne, “ a change in the law.” 

“ There is no question of any change in the law,” said 
Mr. Penton, angrily. “ How should there be a change in 


A POOR GENTLEMAX. 


71 


the law ? Kone but demagogues pr socialists would ever 
think of it. The law is too strong in England. As for 
empirics and revolutionaries — He snapped his fingers 
with hot contempt. The suggestion made him angry, 
although he had himself dwelt upon it in the morning. 
Then he came back to the real matter: Yes, there is one 
way in which it can be done; that is what they want me to 
do. If I joined with Sir Walter in taking certain steps the 
entail could be broken: and Penton would go to Alicia, 
which it appears is his desire. 

Father!’^ Walter cried. It was such an unspeakable 
blow to him, striking at the very root of his personal im- 
portance, his dreams, his prospects, everything that was 
his, that the young man was, what did not always happen, 
the first to seize upon this terrible idea. He could not kei.^p 
his seat, but stood up tremulous, leaning upon the mantel- 
piece, looking down with an angry alarm at all their faces, 
lighted up by the fire. It seemed to Walter that in this 
slowness to understand there was something of the indiffer- 
ence which those who are not themselves affected so often 
show in the threatening of a calamity. Their unawakened 
surprised looks, not grappling with the question, had a half- 
maddening effect upon him. They did not care! it did not 
affect them. 

But, Edward, why should you do that — to please Sir 
Walter — to please — ^your cousin? AVell, I* should always 
like to keep on good terms with my relations, and do what 
I could for them; but to give up what we have been look- 
ing forward to so long — and the only thing we have to look 
forward to! I am sure,^^ said Mrs. Penton, tears getting 
into her voice, I should be the last person to say anything 
against relations, or make dispeace, but when you think 
that it is the only provision we have for the children — the 
only — and when you remember that there’s AValter — 
She stopped, unable to go on any further, bewildered, not 
knowing what to think. 

“ Father does not mean that. It is not that, whatever 
it may mean.” 

Of course I do not mean that. You take up all sorts 
of absurd ideas and then you think I have said it. Sir 
AValter and Alicia are my relations, it is true, but they 
don’t set up a claim on that score, neitlier am I such a 
fool. Try and understand me reasonably, Annie. Prop- 


A POOR GE^sTLEMA^s-. 


erty is different from ^everything else; you don^t give up 
your rights to please anybody. Kerens how it is. When 
the heir is willing to step in and break the entail^ of course 
he has compensation for it. Sir AYalter is a very old man, 
the property in all human probability will soon be in my 
hands, therefore my compensation would be at a heavy rate*l 
They are rich enough,^^ said Mr. Penton, in a sort of smile, 
they could afford thaf ’ 

They would give father the money,^^ said Anne, in a 
way she had before found effectual in clearing her mother^s 
ideas; and he would let them have the land/^ 

Edward, is that what it means 

Yes, strictly speaking: if you put feelings and pride 
and everything to one side, and the thought of one ^s family, 
and of all weVe looked forward to for years. 

Y"ou canT put them to one side,^^ cried young Walter, 
sharply, in the keen, harsh, staccato tones of bitterness and 
fear. You caiPt! Iso money would make up for them, 
nothing could be put in their place. Father, you feel that 
as well as 

/ feel that as well as you! To whom are you speak- 
ing: AA^hat are you in the matter? — a boy that may never 
— that might never — whereas IVe thought of it all my life; 
it has been hanging within reach of my hand, so to speak, 
for years. I^'C built everything on it. And a bit of a boy 
asks me if I feel that — like him! Like him! AA^hat is he 
that he should set himself as a model to me?^^ 

Oh, father!’’ cried Ally, with her hand upon his arm. 

Of course,’^ said Mrs. Penton in her quiet voice, quench- 
ing this little eddy of passion far more effectually than if 
she had taken any notice of it, that makes a great differ- 
ence. They would give you the money, and you would let 
them keejD the land? There is justice in that, Edward. I 
do not say it is a thing to be snapped at at once, although 
we do want the money so much. But still it is quite just, 
a thing to be calmly considered. I wish you would tell us 
now exactly what your cousin wants, and what she would 
give instead of it. It is like selling a property. I am sure 
1 for one should not mind selling property if we could 
get a good price for it: and as we have no associations with 
Penton and have never lived there, nor — 

Mother !^^ Could the old house have been moved by 
hot human breath as by a wind of indignation, it would 


A POOR GE^TTLEMAX. 


78 


have shook from parapet to basement: but Mrs. Penton on 
her deep foundation of sense and reason was not shaken at 
all. She took no notice of the outcry. 

‘‘No, we can have no associations with it/ ^ she said, 
calmly. ‘ ‘ I have dined there three or four times in my 
life, and the children have never been there at all. It 
would not matter much to us if it were to be swallowed up 
in an earthquake, so long as its value remained. 

The girls did not take their mother^s prosaic view. Each 
on her side, they consoled and smoothed down the gentle- 
men — the young heir, hot with the destruction of hopes 
that were entirely visionary, that had never had any reality 
in them — and the immediate heir, to whom this one thing 
was the sole touch of romance or of expectation in life. 

“Tell us about it, father,^^ aiid“ Oh, Wat, be quiet; 
nothing^’s done yet was what they said. 

“ Your mother takes it all very easy. She was not born 
a Penton,^'’ said the father. “ Yes, ITl tell you about it, 
though she^s settled it 'already without any trouble, you 
see. It is not so simple to me. Women can be more 
brutal than any one when they take it in that way. Alicia 
was disposed to see it in the same light. She said she had 
been born there, and never had lived anywhere else, so 
that her feeling" to it must be quite different from mine. 
Different from mine! to whom it has been an enchantment 
all my life. 

“ What your cousin said was quite natural, Edward. I 
should have said the same thing myself. 

“ You have just done so, my dear,^^ he said, with a sar- 
casm which went quite wide of its mark. “ Yes, ITl tell 
you all about it, children. Alicia and her father, it ap- 
pears, have been thinking it over. They think — they 
know, to be sure, for who can have any doubt on the sub- 
ject.^ — that I am poor. I am a poor man, with a number 
of children. A man in my position can not do what he 
likes, but what he must. I need money to bring you all 
up, to* set you out in the world. Eight of you, you know; 
thaPs enough to crush any man,’’ he said. 

The girls looked at each other with a look which was 
half indignant yet half guilty. They felt that somehow 
they were to blame for being there, for crushing their 
father. Walter had no such sensation, but yet he recog- 


' A POOR GEXTLEMAlSr. 

ilized the truth of the complaint. He was the eldest^ a 
legitimate^ even a necessary party to this question; since 
but for his existence^ in his own opinion, his father^s heir- 
ship would have been imirnportant. But the others were, 
he allowed to himself, so much ballast on the other side, 
complicating the question, making a difficulty where there 
should be none. 

I should have thought,^ ^ he said, indignantly, that 
Sir Walter would have seen how mean it was to take ad- 
Yantage — what a poor sort of thing it was to trade upon a 
man^s disabilities — upon his burdens — upon what he can 
not throw off, nor get rid of. 

Mrs. Pen ton 's mind had been traveling meanwhile upon 
its own tranquil yet anxious way. 

Was there any offer made you, Edward? Did she say 
how much they thought: — wouldn’t that be one of the first 
things to think of? We might be troubling ourselves all 
for nothing, if they were intending to take advantage, as 
Walter says. But, then, how should Walter know? They 
would never take him into their confidence. Was any sum 
mentioned? for that would show whether they meant to 
take advantage. I never heard they were that sort of peo- 
j)le. Your cousin Alicia has the name of being proud, but 
as for taking advantage — ” 

Can’t you see,” he cried, with irritation, that you 
are driving me distracted, going over and over one set of 
words? Walter’s a fool. Do you suppose the Pentons are 
cheats?- To make such an offer at all was taking an — If 
we had been as well off as they are they never would have 
ventured. That’s all about "it. I never supposed they 
would try to outwit me in a bargain.” After this little 
blaze of enemgy he sunk into his more usual depression. 

If it hadn’t been for you and the children of course I 
shouldn’t have listened, not for a moment.” 

Why should you do it for us, father? We don’t cost 
so much. We could go away and be governesses, rather 
than be such a burden!” 

Mrs. Penton put down the hand upon which she had 
drawn the stocking to give Anne a warning touch, while 
her father took no notice except with a passing glance. 

A man can do himself no justice when he’s weighted 
down on every side. It has always been my luck. I won- 


A POOR GEJSTLEMAX. 


VO 

der, for my part, now that they have had the assurance to 
propose it at all, why they didn^t propose it years and years 
ago. 

What a thing it would have beenl^’ said Mrs. Pen ton; 
‘‘ many an anxiety it would have saved us, Edward. Why, 
it would make you a rich man! We have always looked 
forward so to Pen ton, and nobody ever supposed Sir Walter 
would live till eighty-five; but I have never thought of it 
as such a paradise. For, in the first place, it would want 
a great deal of money to keep it up. ^ ^ 

“ Yes, it would take money to keep it up.*^ 

“ Everybody says it is kept up beautifully. You never 
could reconcile yourself to neglecting anything, and hear- 
ing people say how different it was in Sir Walter^s time. 
Then the house is such a grand house, and it would come 
to us empty or nearly empty. Oh, I’ve thought it all over 
so often. Gentlemen don’t go into these matters as a 
woman does. Of course, your cousin Alicia would take 
away all the beautiful furniture that suits the house. Hei* 
father would leave it to her, for tliat^s not entailed, you 
know. We should go into it empty, or with only a few old 
sticks: what should we do with the things we’ve got in Pen- 
ton?” She looked round with an affectionate contempt at 
the well-worn chairs, the table in the middle, the old dingy 
curtains with no color left in them. “ The first thing we 
should have to do would be to furnish from top to bottom, 
and where should we find the money to do that?” 

Mr. Penton did not say anything. He made a little im- 
patient wave of his hand, but he did not contradict or even 
attempt to stop her soft, slow, gentle voice as she went on. 

“ And then the gardeners! they are a kind of army in 
themselves. To pay them all their wages every week, the 
men that are in the houses, and the men that are outside, 
and the people at the ‘ lodges, and the carpenters, and the 
men that roll the lawns; where should we find the money? 
If we could have the rents and go on living here, of course 
I don’t say anything against it, we should be rich. But to 
live at Penton we should just be as poor as we are now — as 
poor but much grander — obliged to give parties and keep 
horses — and dress — If I ever had ventured to teli yon my 
opinion, Edward, I should have told you, instead of look- 
ing forward to Penton it has been my terror night and day. 
I always thought,” she continued, after a pause, “ that I 


70 


A POOR GEKTLEMAN. 


should try and persuade you to let it, until, at least, we 
had a little money to the good. 

‘‘ To let Penton!^^ The cry burst from them all in every 
variation of tone, indignant, angry, astonished. To let— 
Penton! Penton, which had &en the golden dream of 
fancy, the paradise of hojae, the one thing which consoled 
everybody, from Mr. Penton down to Horry, for all that 
went amiss in life. 

Well?"^ said the mother, lifting her mild eyes, looking 
at them for a moment. I have always thought so, but I 
would not say it, for what was the use? You all worship 
Penton, both you and the children. But I never was 
taken in by it. I have always seen that, however jDleasant 
it might be, and beautiful and all that — and everybody's 
prejudices in its favor — we never could kee]^ it up.'' 

She turned round, having delivered her soul, and drew 
her basket toward her, in which were her needles and the 
worsted for her darning. She had settled exactly how these 
big holes were to be attacked, how the threads of the stock- 
ing went, and that it must be done in an oblique line to 
keep the shape. Without a little consideration beforehand, 
neither stockings can be mended' nor anything else done. 
She had said her say, and no doubt, however it was set- 
tled, she would do her best, as well for Penton as for the 
stocking. And the others watched her without knowing 
they were 'watcliing her. She settled to her work with a 
little sigh of relief, glad to escape into a region where there 
could be no two opinions, where everything was straightfor-, 
ward. There was something in this which had a great 
effect upon the young ones, especially upon Walter, who 
was the most resistant, the most deeply and cruelly disajD- 
pointed. There came upon him a great, a horrible con- 
sciousness that in all likelihood she was right. 

Mr. Penton, as was natural, was not so much impressed. 

All that," he said, with a little wave of his hand, is a 
truism." He paused, then repeated it again with a sense 
that he had got hold of a new and impressive word. It 
is a truism,' ' he said. * ‘Everybody was aware from the begin- 
ning that to keep up Penton as it has been kept up would 
be impossible. My uncle and Alicia have made a toy of 
Penton. It would be really better, it would look more like 
the old house it is, if it were not cleaned up like that, shaven 
and shorn like a cockney villa. If I were a millionaire I 


A POOR GEOTLEMAK. 


77 


should not choose to do it. So I don^t think very much of 
that argument/'’ AValter^s spirits rose as he followed 
eagerly his father'^s utterance. But after a moment Mr. 
Penton continued, There is no doubt, on the other side, 
that living would cost a great deal more than — more than 
perhaps we— have ever contemplated. There would be the 
furnishing, as your mother says — I had not thought of 
that.'’^ 

He made the children a sort of jury, before whom the 
iwo and the con were to be set forth. 

‘‘ Ifc is beautifully furnished at present — every one says 
so, at least; that would be a great charge to begin with. 
And we might have a good deal to put up with in the con- 
fusion that would be made between the poor family and the 
rich. Your mother is quite right so far as that is con- 
cerned; what she doesnT take into consideration is the 
family feeling — the traditions, the sense that it is ours, and 
that nobody can have any right to it excej^t ourselves. 
Alicia, to be sure, is a Penton too, and, as she says, she 
has been born there, and never has known any other home. 
But still, as a matter of fact, she has entered another fam- 
ily. It would be an alienation. It has always gone in the 
male line. To give it up would be — would be — 

“ Father, said Walter, ‘‘you couldnT think of it. It 
would be like tearing body and soul asunder. Give up 
Penton! I think I would rather die.^^ 

“ What has dying to do* with it?^^ cried the father, im- 
patiently. And then he sat silent for a moment, staring 
into the fire and twiddling his thumbs, unconscious of what 
he was doing. The young ones watched him anxiously, 
feeling with a certain awe that their fate was being decided, 
but that this question was too immense for their interfer- 
ence. At length he got up slowly and pushed back his 
chair. “ We^ll sleep upon it,^^ he said. 


CHAPTER X. 

AN ADVENTURE. 

But Walter, for his part, could not sleep upon it. He 
followed his father out of the room, he scarcely knew with 
ivhat intention; perhaps with a hope of further discussion, 
vof being able to open his own mind, of convincing the 


78 


A POOK GENTLEMAI^^. 


wavering mind of Mr. Peiiton. It seemed to him that he 
could set it ail forth so clearly if only the permission were 
given him. But Mr. Penton gave his son no invitation to 
accompany him. He asked where Walter was going, what 
he meant to do moving about at that hour of the night. 

‘‘I think I will take— a little turn, sir,^^ the young man 
said. 

‘‘ You are always taking turns said Mr. Penton, with 
irritation. Why can^t you do something? Why can't 
3rou be going on with your Greek? 

There had been nothing said about Greek for some time. 
What could he mean by alluding to it now? Walter^s fore- 
boding mind at oijce attached significance to this. He 
thought that his father meant to suggest a return to his 
abandoned studies by way of preparing for something 
serious to come of them. But his dismay at the sugges- 
tion was not so ungenerous as the looker-on might have 
supposed. It was not that he was afraid of being made to 
work. What he was afraid of was that this was but another 
sign of the abandonment of Penton — of turning aside to 
other purposes and other views than those which had been 
in some sort the religion of his life. 

It need scarcely be said that no such idea was in Mr. 
Penton ^s mind. . He took up the Greek, a missile lying 
ready to his hand, and tossed it at Walter as he would have 
flung a stone at a dog which had come in his way in the 
present perturbed state of his spirits. Having done this, 
he thought no more of it, but went into his book-room and 
shut the door with a little emphasis, wdiich meant that he 
was not to be troubled, but which to Walter seemed to 
mean that he declined further argument and had made up 
his mind. The boy stood for a moment groping for his 
hat, following his father with his eyes, and then rushed out 
into the night in a turmoil of feeling — indignation, misery, 
surprise. He had been taken so entirely at unawares. 
Such a thought as that of being called upon to relinquish 
Penton had never entered into his mind; it had never oc- 
curred to him as a possibility. He knew- well enough, 
whatever any one might say, that to abolish entail was not 
a thing to be done in a minute. Eevolutions in law take 
time. It was not likely that a man of eighty-five would 
live long enough to see a change like this accomplished. 
He had dismissed that idea with scorn; and from what 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


79 


other, quarter could any attack comer Walter had felt him- 
self invulnerable — unassailable in his own right. No son 
could be more dutiful, more affectionate, less likely to cal- 
culate upon his father's death; yet, oddly enough, his 
father had appeared to him only as a secondary person in 
this matter — a man with a temporary interest;. it was he 
who was the heir. And — without any fault of his, in com- 
plete independence of him, without asking his opinion any 
more than as one of ^tlie children, any more than that of 
Ally or Anne — his birthright was about to be given away ! 

A dim evening, soft and damp, and with little light in it, 
had succeeded the brilliant watery sunset. There was a 
moon somewhere about, but she was visible only by inter- 
vals from among the milky clouds. A sort of pale suffu- 
sion of light was in the atinosphere, in which all the chief 
features of the landscape were visible, but more clearly the 
house, with all its matted-work of creepers, the lights in 
the windows, the bare branches rising overhead, with a little 
•sighing wind in them, a wind that moaned and murmured 
of rain. More rain! — rain that would fill up higher the. 
link of darkly shining water which all but surrounded Pen- 
ton Hook. The sky was full of it, the atmosphere was full 
of it; the .branches glistened with damp; the very gravel, 
where you had made an indentation with your heel, filled 
up with the oozing water, of which the soil was full: and 
the wind kept sighing with its little lugubrious tone among 
the branches, saying, ‘‘More rain! more rain!" There 
was a certain moral chill in the air by reason of this, but it 
w^as not cold; it was what is called “ muggy " on Thames- 
side. Walter was so well used to it that he made no remark 
to himself on the damp, nor did he feel the chill. He went 
^crunching along the gravel in his boot^, which made a great 
many indentations, and left a general running of little 
stray water-gleams behind him, to a certain bench which 
he had himself made under the tall poplar close to the 
river bank. It had not been put there because there was 
shade to be had in the season when shade was wanted, and 
when it is pleasant to sit out and see the river at one's feet. 
It was put there for quite a different reason, because when 
you knew exactly where to look, there was one small cor- 
ner, the angle of a chimney at Penton, visible among the 
trees. And there he seated himself to think. 

The mother had been right when she said that they had 


80 


A POOR GE^^TLEMAiT. 


worshiped Penton. The children had all been brought 
uj) in that devotion. It was a sort of earthly paradise, in 
which they took refuge from all the immediate humiliations 
and vexations of their lot. To be poor, yet to belong to 
the cla^s which is rich, is not a comfortable position.- 
Tliose who in his own estimation were Walter^* equals were 
in every external circumstance more separated from him 
than were the young farmers about; and yet the farmers 
would have been put out by his presence among them, and 
he would have found himself entirely out of his element 
He was thus a young solitary belonging to nobody, at home 
with none of his compeers, without compauions or friends 
of his age. The farmers, had he taken to them or they to 
him, were better off than he; they had horses to ride, they 
followed the hunt, they kept dogs that ran in coursing 
matches. Wat had nothing except, if he pleased, a share 
now and then of the solid, sturdy little pony-of-all-work, 
and Elfie, the shaggy little terrier* What youth of twenty 
could live in the country and see Fred Milton, who had been 
in his division at Eton, and little Bannister, go by in pink 
and not feel it? He felt it, and so did Ally feel it when 
she read Eva Milton ^s name among the list of the young 
ladies who were presented and who had been at the court 
ball. Do you suppose Ally did not wish to see what a ball 
was like as well as the rest? The farmers^ daughters had 
their dances too, and got beautiful white tulle dresses for 
them as well as their superiors in rank. But Ally got noth- 
ing; neither the one nor the other. They were shut out of 
everything, these poor young people, and felt it, being 
made but of ordinary flesh and blood. 

But Penton had been amid all this the refuge of their 
imaginations. They had been told indeed that even, when 
they were in Pentoii they would be poor. But poverty in 
such circumstances would be transformed. They would no 
longer be shut out of everything, they would come within 
the range of the people who were like themselves.''' 
Walter seated himself at the foot of the poplar-tree, with 
the river running far too close to his feet, for it was very 
high, sweeping round with an ominous hurry and murmur, 
preparing floods to come, and the bare branches overhead 
rustling and whispering in the wind — and directed his eyes 
to the high wooded bank, the belt of trees, the Penton. 
chimney corner. He could not see it v/ith his bodily e3"es,,. 


81 


A POOR OEXTLEMA^R 

but in his soul he saw it dominating the landscape, and saw 
as in a panorama everything it involved. Sir Walter Pen- 
ton of Ponton was a power in the county, he was not a 
mere squire like Fred Milton^s father, or a lordling of yes- 
terday like Bannister ^s ennobled papa. Sir Walter Penton 
of Penton — not the old man who lived shut up in his 
library, who was taken out for a drive on fine days. Young 
Walter meant no harm to the old man, but he was himself 
the Sir Waiter Penton whom he had seen in his dreams. 
What was it he had looked for? Was it only the vulgar 
improvement, more money to spend, better dinners, horses,, 
travels, all that a young man wants? He had wanted these 
things, but something more. He had wanted first of all to 
find himself in his place; to be somebody, not nobody; to 
recover the importance which was his right, to have all the 
evils of fortune made up to him. Is not that what the 
young dream everywhere, whatever their circumstances 
may be? — to have everything set right, to do away with all 
the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes. 
Those who spurn you may not be unworthy, and your own 
merit may not be patent, or even you may be conscious 
that you are not meritorious at ail. But still we dream, 
even without such a tangible occasion for dreaming as Wal- 
ter, of everything being set rig lit. 

x\nd now in a moment this hope was all to be cut away. 
Penton was to be made nothing — nothing to him, no more 
than any house about, no more than Bannister^s fictitious 
abbey with its new Strawberry Hili cloister, which was 
founded upon nothing but wealth, whereas there had been 
Pentons of Penton since the thirteenth century, and most 
likely long before. And he was the representative of them 
all! In liis veins was concentrated the essence of theirs: 
and yet he was to be cut ofi; he was to stand stupid and 
look on, without even a right to say no, though it was his 
inheritance. Walter felt the very possibility of thought 
tak^en from him in this dreadful catastrophe. He had noth- 
ing to do with it! that was what everybody would say. He 
was not one-and-twenty, but even if he had reached that 
age he had nothing to do with it, though it meant his very 
life. 

The tumult of these thoughts overwhelmed the poor 
young fellow. They carried liim away as the river carries 
everything away when it is in flood, and turned him over 




A POOH GE^>T]j:.’\rAX. 


and over and daslied him against sfcones and muddy projec- 
tions, and poured waves of bitterness over his head. He 
sat and bit his nails, and gnavred his under lip, anti thought 
and thought, if there was any way to get out of it, if he 
could say anything, make any protest to his father, declare 
his own readiness to go anywhere, do anything, rather than 
suffer this sacrifice. He might go to Australia — in Aus- 
tralia people make fortunes quickly. He might soon be 
able to make money, to send home something for the chil- 
dren; or to India, or to the gold fields somewhere where 
nuggets were still to be had. These thoughts can scarcely 
be ^called disinterested, for it was how to save what was 
more to him than nuggets or fortune that Walter was 
thinking of; but at all events it was not for himself in the 
first place that he meant to labor. It was for an ambition 
altogether visionary after all — for Penton, which meant to 
him the something better, the something loftier, the ideal 
of life. As he sat musing, the clouds cleared away a little; 
tiiere began to be a clear place in the sky; it grew lighter, 
but he did not remark it — until all at once, without a word 
of warning, the moon suddenly struck out, and made an 
outburst of radiant reflection upon the river at his feet 
wdiich called his attention in spite of himself. He looked 
np instinctively, by the instinct of long habit, and lo! every- 
thing was clear over Penton; the moon shining full, the 
clouds all floating away in masses of fleecy whiteness, and 
a weather-cock somewdiere blazing out, as if it were made 
of gold and silver, to the right. 

This sudden revelation was too much for the boy. He 
gave a cry of insupportable indignation, a loud protest aiul 
utterance of despair, and then hid his face, as if the white 
light had blinded him, in his hands. 

. Stay, Martha, look! there’s some one on the bank. If 
it’s one of the family what shall I dor or if it’s a tramp? 
Look! either he’s gone to sleep and he’ll catch his death 
of cold, or else he’s blinded with the moonlight, as people 

‘ It was a pretty voice that spoke, with a little catch in it 
as of mingled fright and audacity: and then followed a 
slight stir on the gravel as though the speaker had started 
back at sight of the unlooked-for figure under the tree. 
‘"Oh, Martha! what shall I do? I’ve no business to be 
here at this time of the night.” 


A POOFw GENTLEilAN. 


You\e doing no harm/’ said Martha. The missis 
will think I was showing a friend round the grounds to 
look at the moon, and sheTl never say a word. It’s Mas- 
ter Walter. Hush! Don’t you take no notice, and he’ll 
take none. He’s often here of nights.” 

‘‘But he’s gone to sleep, and he’ll catch his death of 
cold,” the stranger said. “ Oh, Martha, you that know 
him, go and wake him up!” 

“ Hush, then, come along. It’s not cold, only a bit 
damp, and we’re used to that in this house. Come along,”' 
Martha said. 

Walter heard with an acuteness of hearing which per- 
haps, had it been only Martha, would not have been his; 
but the other voice was not like Martha’s — he thought it 
sounded like a lady’s voice. And he was pleased by the 
solicitude about himself. And he was very young, and in 
great need of some new interest that might call him out of 
himself. He rose up suddenly, and took a long step after 
the two startled figures, whicli flew before him as soon as 
he was seen to move. 

“ Hi, Martha! where are you ofi to? Come back, I tell 
you. Do you think I’ll do you any harm, that you run 
from me?” 

“ Oh, no, sir, please, sir; it’s only me and a friend tak- 
ing a turn by the river afore she goes up to the village. 
It’s a friend, please, sir, as is staying with us at ’ome.” 

“ There’s no harm done,” said Walter. “ You need not 
run because of me. I’m going in.” The two young wom- 
en had come to a pause in a spot where the moon was shin- 
ing clearly, showing in a little opening, amid all the tracery 
of interlacing boughs, of which she was making a shadow 
pattern everywhere, the square figure of Martha, standing 
firm, with another lighter, shrinking shadow, slim and 
youthful, beside her. There was something romantic to 
Walter’s imagination in this unknown, who had shown so 
much interest in himself. “ Going to the village at this 
hour!” he added. “ I hope she is not going by herself.” 

“Oh, it’s of no consequence, sir,” said Martha, pulling 
rather imperatively her companion by the gown. 

“Is it a bad road, or are there tramps, or — anything? 
Oh, Martha!” the other said, in a voice which sounded 
very clear, though subdued. 

“ Oh, nonsense, Emmy! It’s just like any other road. 


84 


A POOR C4ENTLEMAX. 


It’s a bit dark and steep to begin with. But there’s noth- 
ing to be frightened of.” 

Oh, why did 1 stay so late I” said the other. “ How 
silly of me not to think! No lamps, nor — nor sIiojds, nor 
people. I never was out on a country road in the dark. 
Oh, why didn’t I think — ” 

Don’t be silly! It’s as safe as safe; there’s never no 
accidents here.” 

You had better keep your friend with you all night, 
Martha; my mother will not mind.” 

Oh! — but my mother, sir! she would go out of her 
senses wondering what had come to me.” 

Emmy, don’t be a silly. I tell you it’s as safe — ” 

I have nothing jDarticular to do,” said Walter, good- 
humoredly. Since she is so frightened I will walk with 
her as far as the turnpike. You can see the lights of the 
village from there.” 

Oh, Mr. Walter, I couldn’t let you take that trouble. 
I’d rather go with her myself. I’ll run and get Jarvis. 
I’ll—” 

You need not do anything. It’s turned out a lovely 
night,” said Walter, and I shall be all the better for the 
walk.” 

It was all settled in a moment, before he himself knew 
what was being done, with the carelessness, the suddenness 
which sometimes decides an all-important event. Walter 
was seized just at the moment when his own evil fortune 
seemed overwhelming, when fate seemed to be laying hold 
on him, with a force which nothing could resist. He was 
seized by a kind impulse, a good-natured wish to be of use 
to somebody, to escape from himself in this most legiti- 
mate, most virtuous way, by doing something for another. 
He was pleased with himself for thinking of it. A sense of 
being good came into his mind, with a little surprise and 
even amusement such as only an hour ago would have 
seemed impossible to him. It was like what his mother or 
one of the girls might have done, but such impulses did not 
occur readily to himself. He walked round toward the gate 
by which Martha and her friend stood and whispered to- 
gether. Martha he could see did not like it; she was shocked 
to think of her young master having the trouble. The 
trouble! that was the thing that made it pleasant. He felt 
for the moment delivered from himself. 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


85 


If I am walking too fast for you, tell me/ ^ he said, 
when he found himself upon the road with the small, timid 
figure keeping a respectful distance at his side. 

‘‘ Oh, no, sir,^^ but with a little pant of breathlessness, 
..^le said. 

I am going too fast — how thoughtless of me! Is that 
better? And so you are not used to country roads?^^ 

“lam only a little cockney, sir. I have never been out 
of London before. Ik’s a bad time to come to the country 
in the winter; for one forgets how short the days are, and 
it^s silly to be frightened. I am silly, I suppose. 

“ Let us hope not about other things, said Walter. 

The road is very dark, to be sure. 

“ Yes, sir,^^ she said, with a little shiver, drawing closer. 
They were still in the hollow and the hedges were high on 
either side, and the darkness was complete upon their path, 
though a little way above the moon penetrated, and made 
the ascent as white as silver and as light almost as day. 

“ Should you like,'’^ he said, with a little laugh of em- 
barrassment, yet an impulse which gave him a curious 
pleasure, sucli as he was quite unfamiliar with, “ to hold 
on by me? — would you like to take my arm?^^ 

“ Oh, no, sir!^^ 

The suggestion seemed to fill her with alarm, and she 
shrunk away after coming so close. Walter was, oii the 
whole, relieved that she did not take his offer, but he was 
j^leased with himself for having made it, and immensely in- 
terested in this little modest unknown, who was unseen as 
well — this little mysterious being by his side in the dark. 

“The wood is very pretty, he said, “although you 
oanT see it, and there are no lamps. 

“ You are laughing at me, sir; but if you consider that 
I never was out of the reach of the lamps before. Hamp- 
-stead is the furthest I have been, and there are lamps there 
even on the heath. The darkness is one of the things that 
strikes me most. It is so dark you can feel it. It’s black. ” 
She gave another little shiver, and said, after a moment, 
“ I do so love the light. ” 

Her tone, her words, the ease with which she spoke, filled 
Walter with surprise — a surprise which he expressed with- 
out thinking, with a frankness which perhaps he would not 
have displayed had his companion not been Martha’s 
friend. 


86 


A POOR GEKTLEMAX. 


And whafc/'’ he said, can you be doing in our village, 
and at old Crockford^s? I can't understand it. You are 
a— you're not a — " 

He began to recollect himself when he came this length. 

To say you're a lady " seemed quite simple when he be- 
gan to speak; but as he went on it did not prove so easy. 

If she was a lady how could he venture to make any such 
remark? 

She gave a little soft laugh which was very pretty to hear. 

Old Orockford is — a sort of an uncle of mine," she said. 

‘‘ Your uncle!" 

Well, no — not quite my uncle, but something a little 
like it. When I am humble-minded I call him so; when I 
am not humble-minded—" 

What happens then?" 

I say as little about it as I can; I think as little about 
it as I can. No," she said, with a little vehemence, ‘M'm 
not a lady, and yet I'm not a — Martha Orockford. I am a 
poor little London cockney girl. You shouldn't be walk- 
ing with me, sir; you oughtn't to see me home, you, a gen- 
tleman's son. People might talk. As soon as we get into 
the moonlight there, where it is so bright, I will release 
you and run home." 

“ Home!" said Walter, incredulous; it is not possible. 
Whoever you are — and of course I have no right to ask — I 
am sure you are a lady. You are as little like the Crock- 
fords as any one could be. No doubt you must have some 
reason — " 

‘‘ Oh, yes," she said, with a laugh, clasping her hands, 

a mysterious reason; how can you doubt it? I am a 
heroine, and I have got a story. I am in hiding from 
Prince Charming, who wants to run away with me and 
make me his queen; but I won't have him, for I am too 
high-toned. I could not have him shock his court and 
break the queen mother's heart. Every word I say makes 
you more certain what sort of person I am. Now doesn't 
it?" she cried, with another laugh. 

I can't tell what sort of a person you are," said Wal- ; 
ter, “ for I am sure I never talked to any one like you be- 
fore. ' ' 

‘‘ Well," she said, with a quick breath which might have 
been a sigh, I hope that is a compliment. I have been 
talking to Martha all night, dropping my h's and making | 


A POOR GEKTLEMAN. 


87 


havoc with my grammar. It is nice to do the other thing 
for a little and bewilder some one else. Yes; 1 am sure 
this is a pretty road when there is light to see it. One 
can^t see it in the moonlight^ one can see nothing for the 
moon.^^ 

That is true/^ said Walter; just as in summer you 
can’t see the grass for flowers.” 

don’t exactly catch the resemblance. What is that 
lying under the hedger The shadow is so black, so black 
now we have got into the light. Look, please; I feel a 
little frightened. What is that under the hedge?” 

Nothing,” said Walter; ^'only a heap of stones. If 
you will look back now we have got up here you will see the 
river and all the valley. The view is very pretty from 
here.” 

He hoped to see her face when she should turn round, 
for, though the moonlight is deceiving, it is still better than 
darkness. Even though she had her back turned to the 
light he could now see something — the round of what was 
a pretty cheek. 

I am sure there is something there under the hedge, 
something that moved.” 

I will look to satisfy you,” said Walter; but I know 
there is nothing. Ah — ” 

A quick rush, a little patter of steps flying along the 
white road, were the first indications he had of what had 
happened. Then, before he could recover himself, a laugh- 
ing Good-bye, good-bye, sir. Thank you; I see the vil- 
lage lights,” came to him down the road. He made a few 
steps in pursuit, but then stopped, for the little flying figure 
was already out of sight. And then he stood looking after 
her plant e la, as the Erench say. Why, it was an advent- 
ure!— such a break as had never happened before in his 
tranquil life. 


CHAPTER XL 

THE girls’ opinion. 

The girls in the drawing-room not only met with no ad- 
venture, but they did not even know that the damp atmos- 
phere had cleared up and the moon come out. They did 
not know what had become of Walter. They were as un- 
aware of his despair as of the sudden amusement which had 


88 


A POOK GENTLEMAK. 


come to him to console him in the midst of it. They 
thought — hoped rather — that he had gone to the book-room 
with Mr. Penton and was there talking it over^ and perhaps 
undoing the effect of what their mother had said. It did 
not, indeed, seem very likely that AValter should be able to 
do this, but yet they were so much on the side of Penton in 
their hearts that a vague hope that it might be so, moved 
them in spite of themselves. Walter against mother seemed 
a forlorn hope; and yet when all your wishes are in the 
scale it is difficult to believe that these will not somehow 
help and give force to the advocate. Ally and Anne had 
taken their places at the table when the gentlemen went 
away. They were making little pinafores for the. children; 
there were always pinafores to be made for the children. 
Anne, who was not fond of needle-work, evaded the duty 
(which to her mother appeared one of the chief things for 
which women were made) as much and as long as she 
could, but, being beguiled by promises of reading aloud, 
did submit in the evening. The little ones used so many 
pinafores! Ally was always busy at them, except when she 
was helpings in the more responsible work of making little 
frocks. This evening there was no one to read aloud, but 
no one blamed AValter for going out; no one even thought 
of the book, though they were at the beginning of the third 
volume. Penton for the moment was a more interesting 
subject than any novel. The girls had not thought so 
much of it as AValter had done, but still it had been, a 
prominent feature in their dreams also. The idea of being 
Pentons of Penton could not be indifferent; of taking their 
place among the aristocracy of the county ; of going every- 
where, having invitations to all the parties, to tennis in 
summer, to the dances, all the gayeties, of which now they 
only heard. Secretly in their souls they had consoled 
themselves with the thought of this when they heard of the 
great doings at Milton and all that was done when little 
Lord Bannister came of age. Anne, indeed, had exclaimed. 
If they don^’t think proper to ask us now they may let us 
alone afterward, for I shahPt go!^^ But Ally, more toler- 
ant, had taken the other side. They don't know any- 
thing about us; it would be going out of their way to ask 
us. If they knew we were nice, and didnT ask us because 
we were poor, that vvould be horrid of them; but how can 
they tell whether we are nice or not?^’ Anne would have 


A POOR GEis^TLEMAK. 


89 


none of this indulgent argument; she had made up her 
mind when they came to advancement to revenge all these 
wrongs of their poverty, so that it was equally hard upon 
her to have to consent to do without that advancement 
after all. 

Thus they had plenty to talk about as they made their 
little pinafores. These were made of colored print, which 
looked cheerful and clean (when it was clean), and wore 
well, Mrs. Fenton thought. Brown holland, no doubt, is 
the best on the whole, and there is most wear in it, but it 
is apt to look dingy when it is not quite fresh, and when it 
is once washed gets such a blanched, sodden look; even red 
braid fails to make it cheerful. So that Mrs. Fenton pre- 
ferred pink print and blue, which are cheaper than brown 
holland. The table looked quite bright with those con- 
trasting hues upon it; and the young faces of the girls bend- 
ing over their work, though they looked more grave and 
anxious than usual, were pleasant in their fresh tints. Mrs. 
Fenton herself went on with her darning. She had filled 
up all those great holes, doing them all the more quickly 
because she had studied the “ lie'’"’ of them, and how the 
threads went, before. 

I have never said anything about it,^'^ said Mrs. Fen- 
ton, for what was the use? 1 saw no way to be clear of 
Fenton; but IWe had this in my mind for years and years. 
You don’t know what an expense it would be; even the 
removal would cost a great deal: and though we should 
have a larger income we should have no ready money — not 
a farthing. And then you know your father, he would 
never be content to live in a small way, as we can do here, 
at Fenton; he would want to keep up everything as it was 
in Sir Walter’s time. Fie would want a carriage, and 
horses to ride. He might even think of going into Farlia- 
ment — that was one of his ideas once. Indeed, I see no 
end to the expense if we were once launched lipon Fenton. 
We should be finer, and we should see more company, but 
J don’t think we should be a bit better after awhile than if 
we had never come into any fortune at all.” 

But it would always be something to be fine, and to 
.see more com23any, and to have a carriage, and horses to 
jfde,” said Anne. 

At the cost of getting into debt and leaving off worse 
than we were before!” said the mother, shaking her head. 


90 


A POOR GEXTLEMAX. 




Ally let her work drop on the table and looked up with 
soft eyes. There was a light unusual in them, which shone 
even in the smoky rays of that inodorous lamp. Oh,'^ 
she said, with a long-drawn breath, mother! it^s wicked, 
I know; and if it made things worse afterward — 

She thinks just as I do!’^ cried Anne— that to have 
a little fun and. see the world, and everything you say, 
would be worth it, if it were only for a little while 

Oh, girls!^^ said Mrs. Penton — a mild exasperation was 
in her tone — if you only knew what I know — 

We can't do that, mother, unless we had experience 
like you; and how are we to get experience unless we risk 
something? What can we ever know here? — the hours the 
post goes out, though we have so few^ letters, the times they 
have parties at the abbey, though we're never asked. The 
only thing we can really get to know is how high the river 
rises when it's in flood, and how many days' rain it takes to 
make it level with our garden. Oh, how uncomfortable 
that is, and how chill and clammy! What else can we ever 
know at Penton Hook?" 

‘‘ Oh, girls!" said Mrs. Penton again. 

Si jeunesse savait ! But this is what will never be till 
the end of the world. And at the same time there was 
something in her maternal soul that took their p^rt. That 
they should have their pleasure like the other girls; that 
they should have their balls, their triumphs like the rest; 
that to dress them beautifully and admire their bright looks 
might be hers, a little reflected glory and pleasure for once 
in her dim, laborious life — her heart went out with a sigh 
to this which was so pleasant, so sweet. But then after- 
ward? To give it up was hard — hard upon those who had 
not discounted it all as she had done, taking the glory to 
pieces and deciding that there was no satisfaction in it. She 
felt for her husband and the children, though for them 
more than for him — but her feeling was pity for a pleasant 
delusion which could not last, rather than sympathy. Pen- 
ton itself was to her nothing; she disliked it rather than 
otherv/ise as something which had been opposed to her all 
her life. 

If your father accept this offer," she said after a time, 
we need not stay in Penton Hook. We might let it;^or 
at least we might leave it in the winter and go to some 
other place. We might go to London, or we miglit even 


A POOR OENTLEMAX. 


91 


go abroad; then yon would really see the world. If your 
father had to give up Penton without any advantage that 
would be a real misfortune. But of course they would give 
him a just equivalent. Our income would be doubled and 
more ‘than doubled. Oswald could stay at Marlborough; 
Walter might go to Oxford. We should be better ofl; at 
once without waiting for it, and we should be free, not 
compelled to keep up a large place or spend our money 
foolishly. You might have your fun, as you call it. Why 
shouldn^'t you: We would be a great deal better ofl* than 
at Penton, and directly — at once. You know what every- 
body says about waiting for dead men^s shoes. Sir Walter 
may live for ten years yet. When a man has lived to eighty- 
fi^e he may just as well live to ninety-five. And I am 
sure if we •only could get a little more money to live on, 
none of us wishes him to die.'’^ , 

‘‘ Oh, 110,^^ said the girls, one after another. “ If it is 
any pleasure to him to live,^^ Anne added reflectively, after 
a pause. 

“ Pleasure to live? It is always a pleasure to live, at 
least it seems so. No one wishes to die as long as he can 
liolp it. I wonder why myself; for when you are feeble and 
languid and everything is a trouble, it seems strange to 
wish to go on. They do, though, said the middle-aged 
mother with a sigh. She thought of Sir Walter as they 
thought of her, with a mixture of awe and impatience. 
They felt that their own eager state, looking forward to life, 
must be so far beyond anything that was possible to her; 
just as she felt her own weary yet life-full being to be so 
far in the range of vitality above him. She drew the 
stocking off her arm as she spoke, and smoothed it out, 
and matched it with its fellow, and rolled them both up 
into that tidy ball which is the proper condition of a pair 
of stockings when they are clean and mended, and ready 
to be put on. “ I think I will go up to the nursery and 
take a look at the children, she said. “ Horry had a cold; 
J should like to see that there is no feverishness about him 
now he is in bed.'’^ 

Ally and Anne drojDped their work with one accord as 
their mother went away, not because her departure freed 
tiiem, but because their excitement, their doubt, their 
>setise of the family crisis all intensified when restraint was 
withdrawn, and they felt themselves free to discuss the 


92 


A POOR GENTLEMAJT. 

problem between themselves. What do you think they 
iDoth said instinctively the two questions meeting as it were 
in mid career and striking against each other. “ I think, 
said Anne, quickly, not pausing a moment, that there is; 
a great deal in what mother says. 

Oh, do you?^^ said Ally, with an answering look of 
disappointment; then she added, Of course there must 
be, or mother would not say it. But would you ever be so 
happy anywhere as you would be in Penton? Would yoa 
think anywhere else as good — London, or even abroad — oh,. 
Anne, Penton 

And now it was that Anne showed that skeptical, not ta 
say cynical spirit, that superiority to tradition which had 
never appeared before in any of her family. 

After all,^^ she said, what is Penton? Oply a house 
like another. I never heard that it was particularly con- 
venient or bven beautiful more than quantities of other 
houses. It is very large — a great deal too large for us — 
and without furniture, as mother says. Fancy walking 
into a great empty, echoing place, without a carpet or a 
chair, and pretending to be comfortable. It makes me 
shudder to think of, whatever you may say. 

Ally was chilled much more by Anne^s saying it than by 
the vision thus presented to her. She began hurriedly^ 
‘‘But Penton — and then stopped, not knowing appar-^ 
ently what to say. 

“ I begin to be dreadfully tired of Penton,^^ said Anne,, 
giving herself an air of superiority and elderly calmness- 
“Everybody romances so about that big, vulgar house. 
Well, anything"' s vulgar that pretends to be more than it is. 
One would suppose it was the House Beautiful or else a 
royal palace at the very least, to hear you all speak. And 
then poor old Sir Walter, to grudge him his little bit of 
life! I feel like a vampire,^" cried Anne, “ everyday wish- 
ing that he may die.^^ 

“I am sure,^^ cried Ally, moved almost to tears, “I 
don^t wish him to die."’^ 

“ You wish to be at Penton, and you can^t be at Penton 
till he dies/’ said Anne, triumphantly. “ Poor old gen- 
tleman! his nice warm rooms that he has taken so much 
trouble with, and all his pretty things! And to think that 
a lot of children who will pull everything to pieces should 
he let in upon them, and his own daughter, who is like. 


A POOR CTE]S"TLE>rA5q'. 9S 

himself, and who would keep everything just as he liked 
to see it, should be driven away!’"’ 

I never thought of it in that light before, said Ally, 
in a troubled voice. 

Nor 1/’ said Anne; but it is fair to put yourself in 
another personas place and think how you would feel if — 
Mrs. Russell Pen ton must hate us, naturally. I should if I 
were she. Fancy if there was some one whose interest it 
was that father should die!^^ 

Oh, Anne!^^ 

It is just the very same only that father is not so old 
as Sir Walter. Suppose there were no boys, but only you 
and me, and some other horrible people were the heirs of 
the entail. How I should hate them! I think I shoiild 
try to kill them!^^ 

Anne loved an effect, and Ally’s softer spirit was the in- 
strument upon which she played. Ally cried ‘^No, no,, 
no!^^ with a horrified protest against these abominable 
sentiments. A cloud of trouble gathered over her face; her 
eyes filled with tears. She put up her hands to stop those 
dreadful words as they fiowed from her sister’s mouth. 

“ To hate any one would be terrible. I could not do that» 
nor you either, Anne. ” 

Not if they wished that father might die?” 

This awful supposition overwhelmed Ally altogether. She 
melted into tears. 

AYell, then, come along out into the garden, and don’t 
let’s think of it any more. I want a little air — the lamp is 
so nasty to-night— and I’ll finish my pinafore to-morrow. 
It is very nearly done, all but the button-holes. Do come 
out and see if the river is rising. That is one good thing 
about Penton, it is out of reach of the floods. But look, 
what a change! It is almost as clear as day, and the moon 
so beautiful. If I had known I should not have stayed in- 
doors in the light of that horrid lamp.” 

AYe 77iusf do our work some time,” said Ally, faintly,, 
allowing herself to be j)ersuaded. It was rather cold, and 
very damj); but the moon had come out quite clear, dis- 
persing, or rather driving back into distance the masses of 
milky clouds which had lost their angry aspect, and no 
longer seemed to foretell immediate rain. Rain is disagree- 
able to everybody (except occasionally to the farmers), but 
it is more than disagreeable to people who live half sur- 


94 


A POOR GENTLEMAN-. 


rounded by a river; it made their hearts rise to see that 
the rain-clouds seemed dispersing and the heavens getting 
’Clear. And then it takes so very little to lighten hearts of 
.seventeen and eighteen! The merest trifle will do — the 
touch of the fresh aii% even the little nip of the cold which 
stirred their blood. As they came out Walter appeared^ 
coming back from the gate, a dark figure against the light. 

Oh, Wat, where have you been? Have you been up to 
the village without telling us? And 1 did so want a run? 
Why didnT you call me?^^ 

DonT, Anne,^'’ said Ally; he is not in spirits for 
your nonsense. Poor W^at! he can not throw it off like 
you. 

^Ah,^^ said Walter, reflectively; but it seemed to the 
girls that he had to think what it was he could not throw 
off. I have not been up to the village,^^ he said; “ only 
round the dark corner. Martha w^as there with a little 
.girl who was in a terrible funk. She thought there were 
lions and tigers under the hedge. I just saw her round the 
corner.''^ 

How kind of you, Wat I A little girl! But who could 
she be ?^^ 

doiiT know a bit,^^ said Walter, demurely. It 
was too dark to see her face. 

He thought his own voice sounded a little strange, but 
they did not perceive it. They came to either side of him, 
linking each an arm in his. 

‘‘ Come and look at Pen ton in the moonlight/'' said 
Anne, she who was so indifferent to Penton. Ihit some- 
how to all of them the sting was taken out of it, and there 
was no pain for them in the sight. 


CHAPTER XIL 

A N E W F A C T 0 R . 

Mrs. Russell Penton did not let the grass grow under 
her feet. In two or three days after the above events, be- 
fore Mr. Penton had made up his mind to give any answer, 
good or bad, another emissary appeared at the Hook. He 
was a messenger less imposing but more practical than the 
stately lady who had perhaps calculated a little — more than 
WTXs justified by the effect produced — upon her own old 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


95 


iiiflnence over her cousin. Xo influence, save that of mu- 
tual interest and business-like arrangement, was in the 
thoughts of the present negotiator. He drove up to the 
door in a delightful dog-cart, with a fine horse and the 
neatest groom, a perfectly well-appointed equipage alto- 
gether, such as it is a pleasure to see. He was as well got- 
up himself as the rest of the turn-out — a young man with a 
heavy mustache and an air — Anne, who at the sound of 
this arrival could not be restrained from moving to the 
window and looking out behind the curtains, pronounced 
him to be ‘‘ A Guardsman, I should think. ‘‘ A Guards- 
man! how should you know what a Guardsman is like? and 
what could he want here.^^^ Walter had said, contemptuous- 
ly. But he too had peeped a little, ashamed of himself for 
doing so. A bagman, you mean, coming for orders,^ ^ he 
cried; to which his sister retorted with equal justice: 

How do you know what a bagman is like? and what or- 
ders could he get here?^^ The two young people were con- 
siderably discomfited when the stranger, in all his smartness 
and freshness, with a flower in his button-hole (in the mid- 
dle of winter), was suddenly shown in upon them by Martha 
with the murmur of a name which neither caught, and 
which, as Anne divined, their handmaiden had mumbled 
on purpose, not comprehending what it was. 

The stranger made his bow and explained that he had 
come to see Mr. Pen ton on business; and then he displayed 
an amiable willingness to enter into conversation with the 
younger branches of the family. Your roads are not all 
that could be desired,'’^ he said, finding upon his coat-sleeve 
an infinitesimal spot of mud. I am afraid it must be 
pretty damp here.'’^ 

No, it is not damp,^^ said Walter, promptly. 

Oh!’^ said the other; and then after a moment he haz- 
arded the observation that the house, though pretty, lay 
rather low. 

“ It is not lower than we like it to be,^^ Walter replied^ 
He did not show his natural breeding. He felt somehow 
antagonistic to tliis visitor without any reason, divining 
what his errand was. 

“ OhP^ said the stranger again; and then he addressed 
himself to Anne, and said that the weather was very mild 
for the season, an assertion which the most contradictoiy 
could not have denied. Anne had been looking at him witli 


t)G • A pooil GENTLP^rAX. 

great curiosity all the time. She did hot know how to 
classify this spruce personage She was not at all ac- 
quainted with the genus young man, and it was not without 
interest to her. He was neither a Guardsman nor a bag- 
man, whatever that latter order might be. Who was he: 
She felt very desirous to inquire. Her reply was, 1 am 
afraid father must be out. Did he expect you to corner’^ 
thinking ^^erhaps in this way the stranger might be led into 
telling who he was. 

I don^t know that he expected me. I came on busi- 
ness. There are certain proposals, I believe; but I need 
not trouble you with such matters. I hope I may be per- 
mitted to wait for Mr. Penton, if he is likely to return 
soon. 

The best way,^^ said Walter, with an air of knowledge 
wdiich deeply impressed his sister, ‘‘ is to write beforehand 
and make an appointment. 

That is most true,^^ said the other, with suppressed 
amusement, but I was told I was almost sure to find Mr. 
Penton at home. 

At this moment the door flew open hastily and Ally ap- 
peared, not seeing the stranger as she held the door. Oh, 
Wat,^^ she cried, father has gone out and some one has 
come to see him. Mamma thinks it is some dreadful per- 
son about Penton. She wants you to run out and meet 
him, and tell him — What are you making signs to me 
for?^^ 

As she said this she came fully into the room and looked 
round her, and with a sudden flush of color, which flamed 
over cheek and brow and chin, perceived the visitor, who 
made a step forward with a smile and a bow. 

I am the dreadful person,^^ he said. I don’t know 
what I can say to excuse myself. I had no bad intention, 
at least.” 

Ally was so much discomposed that after her blush she 
grew pale and faint. She sunk into a chair with a mur- 
mur of apology. She felt that she would like to sink 
through the floor; and for once in her gentle life would 
have willingly taken vengeance upon the brother and sister 
who had let her commit so great a breach of manners, and 
of whom one, Anne, showed the greatest possible inclina- 
tion to laugh. M^alter, however, was not of this mind. He 


A POOR GEi^TLEMAN. 97 

took everything with a seriousness that was almost solem- 
nity. 

‘‘ My sister, of course, did not know you were there, 
he said. And then, with that desire to escape from an un- 
pleasant situation which is common to his kind, ‘‘Since 
you are in a hurry and your business is serious, 1^11 go and 
see if I can find Mr. Penton/^ he said. 

And he had the heart to go, leaving the stranger with 
Ally and Anne! the one overwhelmed with confusion, the 
other so much tempted to laugh. It was like a boy, they 
both reflected indignantly to leave them so. Between Ally, 
who would have liked to cry, and Anne who restrained with 
difficulty the titter of her age, the young man, however, 
felt himself quite at an advantage. He asked with quiet 
modesty 'whether he might send his horse round to the 
stables." “ I can send him up to the village, but if you 
think I might take the liberty of iDutting him up here — 
They were so glad to be free of him, even for a moment, 
that they begged him to do so, in one breath. 

“ But for goodness^ sake. Ally, doiiT look so miserable, 
there is no barm done,^'' said Anne, in the moment of his 
absence; it will show him how we feel about it.^^ 

“What does it matter how we feel? but to be rude is 
dreadful; let me go and tell mother — 

“ What, and leave me alone with him? You are as bad 
as Wat. You shabPt stir till father comes. Fancy a 
strange young man, and an enemy — 

“ He need not be an enemy, he is only a lawyer, Ally 
said, always ready to see things in the most charitable light. 

“ And what is a lawyer but an enemy? Did you ever 
hear of a lawyer coming into the midst of a family like this 
but it was for harm? It was very funny, though, when 
you bolted in. Wat and I were making conversation; when 
you suddenly came like a thunder-bolt with your ‘ dreadful 
person.^ 

In the absence of the injured. Ally herself did not refuse 
to laugh in a small way. “ He does not look dreadful at 
hW/’ she said; “ he looks rather — nice, as if he would have 
•some feeling for us. 

“ I donT think his feeling for us could be of much con- 
sequence, We are not fallen so low as that, that we 
should need to care for an attorney's feeling," said Anne. 
Jhit then her attention was distracted by the fine horse 


98 


A POOR GEXTLEMAK. 


with its shiaing coat, the dog-cart all gleaming with care 
and v^^nish, notwithstanding the traces of the muddy 
roads. He must be well oh'/^ she said, at least/'’ with 
a little sigh. 

He is in the law/'’ said Ally; that doesn^t mean the 
same thing as an attorney. An attorney is the lower kind; 
and Pm sure it may matter a great deal that he should have 
feeling. Think of poor Waf’s interest. It is Wat that is 
to be considered; even mother, who is so strong on the 
other side, and thinks it would be so much better for the 
rest of us, is sorry for Wat.^^ 

‘‘Hush! he is coming back, Anne said. There was 
something strangely familiar in the return of the visitor 
through the open door without any formalities, as if he 
were some one staying in the house. 

“ It is very fortunate that the weather is so fine,’^* he 
said, coming back. “ The situation is delightful for the 
summer, but you must find it unpleasant when the floods 
are out. 

“ It is never unpleasant,'’^ said Anne; “ for it is our 
home. We like it better than any other situation. Pen- 
ton is much grander, but we like this best.'’^ 

“We need not make any comparison,^^ said Ally. 
“ Cousin Alicia prefers Penton because she was born there, 
and in the same way we — 

“ I understand, the stranger said. But the girls were 
not clever enough to divine what it was he understood, 
whether he took this profession of faith in the Hook as 
simply genuine, or perceived the irritation and anxiety 
which worked even in their less anxious souls. He began 
to talk about the great entertainment that had taken place- 
lately at Bannister. “ It was got up regardless of ex- 
pense, he said, “ and it was very effective as a show. All 
that plaster and pretense looks better in the glow of Bengal 
lights — of course, you were — What am I thinking of? It 
is not your time yet for gayeties of that kind.-’^ 

“We were not there,^'’ said Anne, in a very decisive 
tone. Disapproval, annoyance, a little wistfulness, a little 
envy were in her voice. “ We doiPt go anywhere,^^ she 
said. 

“ Not yet, I understand, said the stranger again. 
There was a soothing tone about him generally. He 
seemed to make nothing of the privations and disabilities 


A POOR GENTLEMA^s^ 


99 


of which they were so keenly conscious. I have a sister 
who is not out/’ he went on. I tell her she has the best 
of it; for nothing is ever so delightful as the parties you 
don’t go to^ when you are very young. ” 

They paused over this, a little dazzled by the appearance 
of depth ill the saying. It sounded to them very original, 
and this is a thing that has so great a charm for girls. He 
went on pleasantly, There are to be some entertain- 
ments, I hear, at "Penton when everything is settled. I 
hope I may have the pleasure of meeting you there. ” 

‘^At Penton! we are never at Penton,” they cried in 
the same breath; but then Ally gave Anne a look, and 
Anne, being far the most prompt of the two, made an im- 
mediate diversion. There is father coming through the 
garden/’ she said. It was a principle in the family to 
maintain a strict reserve in respect to Penton, never permit- 
ting any one to remark upon the want of intercourse be- 
tween the families. It is needless to say that this was a 
very unnecessary reserve, a^ everybody knew what were 
the relations between Sir Walter and his heir. But this is 
a delusion common to many persons more experienced in 
the ways of the world than the poor Pen tons of the Hook. 

Mr. Penton came in making a great noise with his big 
boots upon the tiles of the hall. He opened the door of 
the drawing-room and looked in with a nod of recognition 
which was not very cordial. Good-morning, Mr. Eoch- 
ford,” he said; I am sorry I have kept you waiting. Per- 
haps you will come with me to my room, where we shall be 
undisturbed. ” 

The young man hesitated a little. He made the girls a 
bow more elaborate than is usual with young Englishmen. 

If I am not so fortunate as to see you again before I 
go — ” he said, with his eyes on Ally — and how could Ally 
help it? She was not in the habit of meeting people who 
looked at her so. She blushed, and made an inclination of 
her head, which took Anne, who gave him an abrupt little 
nod, quite by surprise. Why,” the girl cried, almost be- 
fore the door closed, Ally, you gave him a sort of dis- 
missal as if you had been a queen.” 

What nonsense!” Ally said, but she blushed once more 
all over, from the edge of her collar to her hair. 
wonder,” she said, whether Cousin Alicia can leave us 
out, if she is going to give entertainments as he says.” 


100 


A POOR GENTLEMAN 


‘^When everything is settled — what does that mean,- 
when everything is settled:'’^ cried Anne. 

It means, I suppose/'’ said Walter, gloomily, ‘‘ when 
Penton has been given over, when we have fallen down 
among the lowest gentry, just kept up a little (and thaPs 
not much) by the baronetcy which they can not take away.. 
Father can'^t sell that, I believe. Mrs. Russell Penton 
may be a very great lady, but she can'^t succeed to the bar- 
onetcy. Leave us out! Do you mean to say that — over 
my body, as it were, you would go!^^ 

“ Oh, Walter, don^t take it like that! If father settles 
upon doing this, it will be because both together they have 
decided that it is the best.-’^ 

“ And no one asks what I think,'’'’ cried the lad, 
“ though after all it is I — '’^ He stopped himself with an 
effort, and without another word swung out again, leaving^ 
the door vibrating behind him. And the girls looked at 
each other with faces suddenly clouded. Fifty looks to 
twenty so remote an age, so. little to be calculated upon. 
After all, it was Walter, not Mr. Penton, who was the heir. 
And no one asked what he thought! 

The door of the book-room closed upon the negotiations 
which were of such importance to the family. There came 
a hush upon the house — even the winterly birds in the trees 
without, who chirped with sober cheerfulness on ordinary 
occasions, were silent to-day, as if knowing that something' 
very important was going on. Those who passed the door 
of the book-room — and everybody passed it, the way of 
each individual, whatever he or she was doing, leading them 
curiously enough in that direction — heard murmurs of con- 
versation, now in a higher, now in a lower key, and some- 
times a little stir of the chairs, which made their hearts 
jump, as if the sitting were about to terminate. Put these 
signs were fallacious for a long time, and it was only when 
dinner was ready, the early dinner, with all its odors, 
which it was impossible to disguise, that the door opened 
at last. The three young people were all about the hall- 
door, Walter hanging moodily outside, the two girls doing 
all they could to distract his thoughts, when this occurred. 
They all started as if a shell had fallen amongst them. By 
the first glimpse of Mr. Penton '’s face they were all sure 
they could tell what had been decided upon. But they were 
not to have this satisfaction. 


A POOR GEKTLEMAK. 


101 


''Tell your mother/'’ he said, keepiug in the shade,, 
where no one could read his countenance, " to send in a 
tray with some luncheon for Mr. Eochford and me.'’^ And 
then the door closed, and the discussion within and the 
mystery and anxiety without continued as before. 


CHAPTEK XIIL 

MAKANDWIFE. 

" However it goes,^^ said Mr. Eussell Penton, " I don^t 
think you can help taking some notice of the young people. 
In the first place it is right, but that I allow does not count 
much in social matters; and next ifc is becoming and expe- 
dient, and what the world will expect of you, which is of 
course much more important.'’^ 

"Gerald,'’" said his wife, "what have I done to make 
you speak to me like that?"" 

" I don"t know that you have done anything, Alicia. It 
is of course your affair rather than mine. But I think it is: 
hard upon your cousins. It is like that business about the 
birthright, you know — ^you have got the mess of pottage, 
and they — the other thing, half sentimental, half real."" 

" I wonder at you, Gerald,"" cried Mrs. Penton. " What 
true sentiment can they have in the matter? They never 
lived here; their immediate ancestors never lived here. 
False sentiment, if you like, as much of that as you like, 
but nothing else; and the real advantage will be immedi- 
ate, as you know. "" 

" Yes, I know. I never said it was the sentiment of ac- 
quisition; it is the sentiment of personal importance, which 
perhaps is even more telling. Apart from Penton they 
will feel themselves nobodies."" 

" As they are, as they have always been."" 

" Well, my dear,"" said Mr. Eussell Penton, with a 
shrug of his shoulders, " I have always said it was your 
affair and not mine. "" 

" You never said that you disapproved. You have heard 
all the conversation that has gone on about it, and yet you ■ 
have never said a word. How was I to know that you dis- 
approved?"" 

" I don"t disapprove. It is a question between you and 


102 


A POOE GENTLEMAIS^ 


Sir Walter and your relations. It would not become me to 
thrust in my opinion one way or the other. 

Tears came into Mrs. Penton^s eyes. When you say 
such things, Gerald, you make me feel as if I were no true 
wife to you. 

Yes, you are my true wife, and a very dear one,^^ he 
said, after a momentary pause, without effusion, but with 
serious kindness. ‘‘But we knew, Alicia, when we mar- 
ried, that the position was different from that of most hus- 
bands and wives. I am a sort of Prince Consort, to advise 
and stand by you when I can; but it is my best policy, for 
my own self-respect as well as your comfort, not to inter- 
fere. 

“ The Prince Consort was not like that,^^ she said; “ he 
was the inspiration of everything. It was not in the nature 
of things that anything could be done or thought of with- 
out him. 

“I have not that self-abnegation, ^Mie said; “ there is 
but one like that in a generation; besides, my dear, you are 
not the queen. You must defer to another's guidance. 
What is settled between Sir Walter and you is for me 
sacred. I make any little observations that occur to me, 
But not in the way of advice. For example, I permit my- 
self to say that it is hard on your cousin, because I think 
you don’t quite appreciate the hardship on his side — not to 
prevent you carrying out your own purpose, which I don’t 
doubt is good and very likely the best. ” 

She shook her head doubtfully. “ You are very kind 
^nd very tolerant, Gerald, but all you say makes me see 
that you would not have done this had you been in my 
place.” 

He paused a little before he replied. 

“ It is very difficult for me to imagine myself in your 
place, Alicia. A man can not realize what it would be to 
be a woman, I suppose. But I’ll tell you what I should 
have done had I been in Sir Walter’s place, with one dear 
daughter and an heir of entail — I should have moved 
heaven and earth to kick him out or buy him out. There 
<3an be no doubt as to what I should have done in that 
•case. ’ ’ 

Alicia took his hand and held it in both hers. She 
looked gratefully into his face, and said, “ Hear Gerald!” 
but yet she turned away unsatisfied, with a haunting sus- 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


lOS 

picion. Being Sir Walter, that was what he would have 
done. But he thought the woman who was his wife should 
not have done it. In no way had Bussell Pen ton intimated 
this to be the case. He had never said that a woman 
should have a different standard of duty set up for her. 
But Alicia had intuitions which were keener than her in- 
telligence, just as she had longings for approval and sym- 
pathy which went far beyond her power of communicating 
the same. He would have liked her better if she had not 
grasped at Penton. Without any aid of words this was 
what she divined. The blank of the doubt which was in 
her made her heart sore. She wanted to carry his sym- 
pathy with her, at any cost. She called after him as he 
was going away, 

‘‘ As you are so much concerned about those young peo- 
ple, I will ask them. I will ask them, to please you; if 
you like, next week, when the Bromley Bussells are here.'’^ 

He looked at her for a moment with something like a 
stare of surprise; then his countenance relaxed; a smile 
came over his face. 

‘‘ Why not.^^^ he said. 

‘‘ Why not? There can be no reason against it if you 
wish 

This time Bussell Penton laughed out. 

“ No,^^ he said, “no reason; the other way. Let the 
young fellow have his chance. 

“ What chance?^^ Alicia stiffened in spite of herself. 
His laugh offended her, but she would not show her offense, 
nor inquire what he meant, in case that offense might be 
increased. “I was not thinking, she added, “of any 
young fellow. I was thinking of the girls. 

“ If my wish has weight with you, let the boy come, too. 
The sisters will want a chaperon, donH you know?^^ 

“ The sisters?"^^ said Mrs. Penton. An inexpressible 
sense of dislike, of displeasure, of repugnance came over 
her, as if some passing wind had carried it. “Not that 
sharp girl,^^ she said, with a look of fastidious dissatisfac- 
tion — something that moved the lines of her nostrils as if it 
offended a sense. 

“Not the sharp girl, and not the boy, said Bussell 
Penton. “But then who is left?^^ 

“ My godchild is left, Alicia, the one I like best; or^ 
rather, whom I — 


104 


A POOR GEIs^TLEMAISr. 


Dislike least/ ^ said her husband, with his laugh. I 
nan not see, now that everything is likely to be settled to 
your satisfaction, what possible reason there can be for dis- 
liking them at all/^ 

There is none,^^ she said, with an effort. I am the 
victim of a state of aff'aii's which is over; I can not get my 
feelings into accordance with the new circumstances. You 
can not blame me, Gerald, more than I blame myself. 

He said nothing at all in reply to this, but turned away 
iis he had done with the intention of going out, when she 
called him back. Once more she recalled him, with the 
same dull sense of his disapproval aching at her heart. 

Gerald, after all, you see I do not even wait till things 
-are settled to ask the children. Give me a little credit for 
that.'’^ 

You said, Alicia, that it was to please me. 

And so it is! and so are many things — more, a great 
many more, than you think. 

He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her 
face. ‘‘You are always very good, very kind, and ready 
to please me. Is it for that I am to give you credit? or for 
generosity toward your young cousins? You are not very 
logical, you see."^^ 

“ Women are not supposed to be logical, she said. 

He gave a grave smile as he took his hands away. 
“Women are more logical than they acknowledge, ^Mie 
said. “ It is a convenient plea.'’^ 

And this time there was no recall. He went out without 
any further hinderance, not much pleased with himself, and 
perhaps less with her. He was not, as she divined, satisfied 
u,t all. Rich Mrs. Penton^s husband had as little devotion 
to Penton as had poor Mr. PentoiPs wife. He felt that he 
would have been more at his ease in any other house, and 
a subtle sort of rivalry with Penton, antagonism partly 
irrational, and disappointment in the thought that Sir 
Walter’s death, when it came, would bring him no enfran- 
chisement, filled his mind with an irritation which it was 
not always possible to keep under. He did not want her to 
do this scanty justice to her young relations, her only rela- 
tions, in order to please him. They had done no harm; 
why should it be an offense to her that they had in their 
veins a certain number of drops of kindred blood? Pres- 
tently, however, this irritation turned into displeasure with 


A POOR GEiiTTLEMA^^'. 


105 


himself. He had been hard upon Alicia; he had asked 
that the young Pen Lons should be invited, vaguely, without 
any particular meaning; and she had said she would ask. 
them at once, along with the heiress, the great prize for 
whom so many were contending. It had jarred upon her 
when he laughed, and it now occurred to him that his laugh 
had been ill-timed and out of place; yet all alone as he 
was, when it came back to his mind he laughed again. 
Why not? he had said — and why not? he repeated with a 
gleam of humor lighting up thoughts which were not par- 
ticularly pleasant in themselves. He, a poor scion of the 
Eussells, had carried off the Penton heiress; why should 
not young Penton, the poor and disinherited, have a try at 
the other, the Eussell heiress? But if Alicia saw the reason 
of his merriment, no wonder that it had jarred upon her. 
It was in bad taste, he said to himself. To compare her 
with the little Eussell girl was a thing which even in 
thought was offensive. He did not wonder that she was 
ojffended by his laugh, that it made her stiff and cold. He 
sighed a little as all inclination to laugh died out of him. 
It would have suited him better to have had a mate of a 
lighter nature, one who would have let him laugh, who 
would have been less easily jarred, less serious, less full of 
dignity; but this was a thing that Eussell Penton was too 
loyal even to say to himself. It might touch the surface of 
his thoughts, but only to be banished. It was because of 
this inevitable jar, this little difference, which was so little 
yet was fundamental, that he sighed. 

And she sighed, too, she who did so many things to 
please him~more, far more than he had any idea of. She 
was ready to do almost anything to please him; almost, yet 
with a great reserve. Instinctively she was aware that 
Penton stood between them — that the bondage of the great 
house which was not his, and the burden of representing a 
family of which he was only, so to speak, an accidental 
member, lay very heavy upon the easy mind and cheerful, 
humorous nature of her husband. He was not born to 
be the head of a house. What he liked was the case 
of a life without responsibilities, without any repre- 
sentative character. A cheerful little place with all its 
windows open to the sun, where he could do what he liked, 
where no man could demand more of him than to be friend- 
ly and agreeable which he could leave when he chose and 


106 


A POOS GENTLEMAN. 


come back to as he pleased; that would have been his ideal 
jhome. She said to herself that the wife whom he had 
taken to such a little house would have been very happy, 
and sometimes, in the days wlien she still indulged in 
dreams (which women do in the strangest way, long after 
the legitimate age for it), she had seen that tiny place in a 
vision with children about it and no cares (as if that were 
possible!) and Gerald ^s countenance always beaming with 
genial content. But the woman who was so happy, who 
was at her ease, whom no troubles touched, who was Ger- 
ald^s other self, was not Alicia. She had to sigh and turn 
away, feeling that this could never be. Her life had been 
already settled when she married. There was no change 
or escape for her; indeed, what was stranger still, though 
she perceived the happier possibilities in the other lot, she 
knew that it had never been possible to her. The ease 
'would have wearied, perhaps even disgusted her. Attend- 
ing that vision of happiness 'would conie revelations of the 
slipshod, glimpses of what ease and happiness so often come 
to when they grow to overluxuriance. Ho, the difference 
was very slight, but it was fundamental. And in this, as 
in so many other contradictions of life, the woman had the 
worst of it. Eussell Penton was tolerant by nature, and he 
had trained himself to still greater tolerance. He made an 
observation, as he said, now^ and then, but it was possible 
to him to stand by and look on, without worrying himself 
;about that which he could not change. He would say to 
liirnself that it was no business of his; he could even re- 
frain from criticism except in so far as we have seen, when 
he made a good-natured protest in defense of some one 
wronged, or avenged another's injury by a laugh. But 
Alicia, on her side, was not so easily satisfied. She wanted 
him to approve; his acquiescence, his plea that it was not 
his affair, his declaration that he would not interfere, were 
to her gall and bitterness. She could not adopt his light 
ways, nor take things easily as he did. Following her own 
course, acting upon her own principles, his concurrence, 
his approval, were the things she longed for before all 
others. When he said You are quite right she was 
happy, though even then never without a sense that he 
must have added within himself, right from your own 
point of view.^^ The curious thing, however, and one 
which she was also aware of with a strange double con- 




A POOR GENTLEMAK. 107 

sciousness, was that she never thought of adopting his point 
of view, or attempting even any compromise between his 
and hers. She had placed herself so completely in her own 
groove that she could not get out of it, and had no wish to* 
get out of it. But yet she wanted his approval, all the 
same. She wanted it passionately, with an insistance which 
even her own complete enlightenment as to the difference 
between them never affected. Having her own way, even 
in the supreme question which now at the last had been 
opened only to promise the most satisfactory solution, she 
yet would have no real pleasure in it unless he approved. 
And his mode of passing it over, his assent which meant 
no approval, took the pleasure out of everything. What 
could she do to please him more than she was doing? But 
she never had it, that satisfaction of the heart. - 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A TRAA^SITIOJSr PERIOD. 

Mr. Pentok^s long interview with the young solicitor 
had ended in this: — and though it did not suem exactly a 
settlement of the question, it had been taken for granted 
by both families as such— that he consented to treat with 
Sir Walter Penton. The terms might take a longer time 
to arrange, and there were conditions — some of a rather 
peculiar character, as his opponents thought — which Mr. 
Penton insisted upon. But upon the general question he 
was supposed to have yielded. It had taken him a great 
deal of thought, and he was not happy about it. He went 
about the house and his few fields with a moody counte- 
nance, avoiding every turn or point of view which revealed 
Penton — those points of view which had once been his hap- 
piness. This fact alone took a great deal of the pleasure 
out of his life. It had been his relief in former days to 
mount the road to that corner where the view was, or to go 
out and sit on the bench under the poplar-tree; but now he 
turned his back upon these favorite places. When he was 
low he had no longer this way of escaping from himself. 
Of all points of the compass, that on which Penton lay had 
become the most distasteful to him. He would have liked 
to have had it blotted out from the landscape altogether; 
there was nothing but pain in the sight of it, in the mere 


108 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


knowledge that it was there. And winter is cruel in this 
particular. It; spares you nothing — not even a chimney. 
The weather-cock, glowing through the bare trees, seemed, 
lo catch every ray of light and blazon it over the whole 
country; the windows that faced the south were in a per- 
petual scintillation. The great house would not be hidden; 
it made no account of the feelings of those who were in the 
act of parting with it forever; though its aspect was now a 
reproach and humiliation to them instead of a pride, it 
seemed to force itself more and more on their eyes. Walter 
felt this almost more strongly than his father, if that were 
possible. He, too, went about moody, with the air of a 
man injured, turning his back on the once favorite quarter 
where the sunset was. He said in his haste that he never 
wanted to see a sunset again, and when the girls called his 
attention to all the stormy gorgeous colors of the winter 
afternoon, would turn his back upon them'and declare that 
the reflection in the river, the secondary tints in the cold 
gray of the east, were enough tor him. He said this with 
a vehemence which his father did not display. But Walter 
had solaces and alleviations of which his father was incapa- 
ble; and Mr. Pentoii was the one who felt it most deeply 
:after all. In his middle-aged bosom the tide of life was not 
Tunning high. He had few pleasures; even few wishes. It 
no longer moved him in his habitual self-restraint that he 
had no horses, no means of keeping his place among his 
peers. All that had dropped away from him in th^’ chill of 
custom — in that acceptance of the inevitable which is the 
lowest form of content. But there had always been Penton 
in which his imagination could take refuge. Penton was 
still an earthly paradise into which one day or other he 
should And entrance, which nobody could close from him. 
And now that too was closed, and his fancy could no longer 
go in and dwell there. He said very little about it, but he 
felt it. to the bottom of his heart. It was the sort of thing 
of which he might have died had the floods been out or the 
atmosphere as deleterious as it sometimes was: but happily 
it was not an exceptionally wet season, and the river had 
not as yet been out that year. 

The ladies from the first had taken it better, and they 
continued to do so. Mrs. Penton began to make calcula- 
tions with bated breath and many a ‘‘ hush!^^ when either 
father or son were nigh^ — of what she would now bo able to 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


109 


do. She thought it would be well for them alb as soon as 
matters were settled, to go away; for though the waters 
were not out yet, it was scarcely to be hoped for that they 
should not after Christmas, in rainy February at the latest, 
have their way; and a separation from the scene of their 
disappointment would, she thought, be good both for Mr. 
Penton and Wat. Mrs. Penton said this with a sigh, feel- 
ing already all that was involved in a removal in the middle 
of winter; but it would be good, she felt, for Horry and 
the rest to be out of the damp, and it would be very good 
for Wat The thing for Wat would be to go to Oxford 
without delay; fortunately he was not too old, and that 
would take him off thinking about Penton if anything 
would. As for the father, there was no such panacea for 
him. What can be done to distract or divert a man who 
lias outlived the ordinary pleasures, and can not have his 
mouth stopped or his heart occupied with any new toy? A 
horse or two such as he would now be able to afford would 
have done a great deal for him once; but now he had got 
out of the habit of riding, and might not care to take it up 
again. It was easier to think of the young ones whose life 
lay all before them, and who would enter the world now 
under so much better conditions, though not those they had 
calculated upon. Mrs. Penton made up her mind that if 
all was settled on the terms proposed she would be able to 
give the girls every advantage. They should be taken 
to see a .great many things, they should have clothes and 
surroundings that suited their condition; they might even 
see a little of the season ^^^when the proper time came 
round. All these things were pondered and decided upon 
in the many hours when the feminine portion of the house- 
hold sat together, which were more than had ever been be- 
fore. For Wat did not care to have his sisters constantly 
with him as he once had done; they set it down to his dis- 
appointment about Penton, and the disturbance of his 
temper and of his life which had ensued — which when they 
accused him of it he agreed in with a sort of satisfaction. 
But when Anne said, without thought, One would think 
Wat had found somebody else to go with him,^^ he was very 
angry, and grew very red, and demanded to know who 
»else? who was he likely to have else? with an indignation 
which the provocation did not justify. 

Thus it will be seen that the circumstances of the house- 


110 


A POOR GENTLEMAN-. 


hold were much changed. They had not been in a very 
flourishing condition when they first discussed the law of 
entail and the possibility that it might be attacked by a re- 
forming parliament and their birthright taken from them; 
but somehow that simple time of expectation and depres- 
sion, which now looked as if it might be years ago, had 
been, with all its straitenedness, a happier time than now. 
A certain agitation had got into all their veins; the girls 
and their mother sat mostly alone in the evenings. There 
was no reading aloud. Wat was out almost always, taking 
a walk, he said; or when he was not out he was in the 
book-room, grinding, as he told them, at his Greek, which 
was quite necessary if he was going up to Oxford in the be- 
ginning of the 5^ear. The girls would have thought this 
state of affairs insupportable a little while ago, but in the 
commotion of the approaching change they found so much 
to talk of that they were partially reconciled to making 
pinafores all the evening in the light of the paraffine lamp^ 
though it smelled badly, and there was no one to read to 
them. They had a great deal to talk about. As for Mrs. 
Penton, her mouth was opened as it had never been in her 
life before. She talked of balls, and theaters, and of the 
things they must get as soon as ever matters were 
settled. She recounted to them her own experiences— the 
dances she had gone to before her marriage, and all the 
competition there had been to secure her for a partner. 
“ They said I was as light as a feather,^^ she said, with her 
eyes fixed upon the stocking she was darning, and without 
raising her head; and so they will say of Ally, for Ally is 
just the same figure I was. But you must have some les- 
sons when we go to town.^^ She was pleased thus to talk, 
recalling old recollections, to which the girls listened with 
astonishment; for they had never supposed that their 
mother knew anything of those gayeties, which to them- 
selves were like the fables of golden isles unknown to men; 
but they were not displeased to listen, weaving into the 
simple story as it flowed the imaginations, the anticipations 
which filled that unknown World upon the threshold of 
which they stood. It was even more absorbing than the 
stories of the good and fair heroines (for Mrs. Penton was 
very particular in her choice of the books which were read 
by them) to which they had been in the habit of listening. 
But they missed Wat, to whom, however, they allowed the 


A POOR GE]SrTLE]y[AX. 


Ill 


narration of mother^ s tales might have seemed a little flat 
had he been there. Wat up to the present moment had 
shown very little interest in anything of the kind; but it 
was a little strange now that he should so often be taking 
a turn even when the moon was not shining, and when 
the country roads w^ere so dark. 

Mr. Kochford, the solicitor, came on several occasions 
during this time of transition. He came often enough to 
make the children quite familiar with that trim and shining 
dog-cart, and the horse w^hich was so sleek and shining, too. 
Horry had been driven round and round in it, nay, had 
been allowed to drive himself, making believ-e, before it was 
put up: and he and his smaller brother assisted at the 
harnessing and unharnessing of this famous animal with 
the greatest enthusiasm every time he came. Young rustic 
lads attending at a monarches levee could not have been 
more interested than were these babes. And Mr. Rochford 
made himself more or less agreeable in other ways to the 
whole family, except Wat, who did not take to him, but 
kept him at a distance with an amount of unfriendly temper 
which he showed to no one else. There was no idea now" 
of a tray carried into the book-room when this visitor came. 
He was introduced to the early dinner where all the chil- 
dren sat in their high chairs, and where the food was more 
wdiolesome than delicate — a meal w^hich was too plainly 
dinner to be disguised under the name of luncheon. Mr. 
Rochford made himself quite at home at this family dinner. 
He praised everything, and declared that he was alw^ays 
most hungry at this hour, and eat so lieartily that Mrs. 
Penton took it as a personal compliment; for though Mrs. 
Peiiton sometimes made a little moan about the appetites 
of the children, she yet was much complimented wdien 
visitors (who were so few at the Hook) eat w"ell and seemed 
to relish the simple food. Roast mutton may be very 
simple,^ ^ she said, but there is roast mutton and roast 
mutton — a big, white, fat leg half cooked is a very different 
thing from what is set on our table, for I must say that 
Jane, if she is not much to look at, is an excellent cook. 
vShe liked to see people eat; not Horry getting three helps 
and gorging himself; that was a different matter altogether; 
but a visitor who could appreciate how good it really was. 

And after dinner was over Mr. Rochford would ask 
whether he might not to be taken round the garden to see^ 


112 


A POOR GEis^TLEMAlSr. 


not the flowers, for there were none, but the flood-marks of 
diflerent years, and how high the river had come on the 
last occasion when the waters were ‘‘ out/^ He had a 
great interest in the floods — more than Mr. Penton, who 
got weary of his guest^s enthusiasm, and stole back to the 
book-room, leaving him with the girls; and more than 
Anne, who heard her mother calling her, or found she had 
something to do in the poultry-yard, every time this little 
incident occurred. Ally was the most civil, the most long- 
suffering, and it soon became evident that there was only 
one who had patience to conduct Mr. Eochford to see the 
flood-marks. 

I have been used to them all my life,^^ the young law- 
yer said. I have an old aunt who lives as close to the 
river as this, and who has the water in her garden every 
year. I used to be sent on visits there when I was a child^ 
and oh! the transports of the inundation and the old punt 
in which we used to float about. To come up under the 
windows in that punt was bliss. 

You could not do that here,^^ said Ally, with that 
pride in the Hook which was part of the family character. 

The water never comes above the garden. I showed you 
the highest flood-mark was on a level with the terrace 
round the house. 

• Yes,^^ said the visitor, with an implicit faith which was 
not universal among those who heard this tale. What a 
piece of good fortune that is! You must feel as if you were 
in an oasis in the midst of lire desert. 

Ally felt that the metaphor was not very appropriate, 
but of course she knew what he meant. 8he said, The 
little boys are as fond of seeing the floods as you were when 
you were a boy.^*’ 

It would be difficult work if at any time the house was 
cut off — I beg your pardon, said Eochford, that is non- 
sense, of course; but do you know I dreamed the other 
night that the river was higher than ever had been known, 
and was sweeping all round the Hook, and that the family 
were in danger? I got out in my boat on the wildest 
whirling stream, and steered as well as I could for your 
window. Which is your window. Miss Penton? I knew 
quite well which it was in my dream, and steered for it. 
That one! why then I was right, for that was where I 
steered. 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 11^ 

You frighten me/"’ said Alljy but the water has never 
come near the house. 

It did on this occasion. There were people at all the 
windows, but I steered- for yours. I heard myself calling 
Miss Penton, and you wouldnT let me save you. You kept 
putting the children into my arms, and I could not refuse 
the children — but I shall never forget the horror with which 
I woke up, finding that you always delayed and delayed and 
would not come.^^ 

“ How kind of you,^^ said Ally, laughing, but with a 
little blush, to take so much trouble even in your dream. 

Trouble he cried, but yet it was great trouble, for 
you would not come. I heard myself calling, trying every 
kind of argument, but you always pushed some one in front 
of you to be saved first, and would not come yourself. I 
awoke in a dreadful state of mind, crying out that it was 
my fault, that it was because of me, that if it had been any 
one else you would have come. 

‘‘How ungrateful you must have thought me,^’ said 
Ally, blushing more and more, “ but of course I should 
have put the children first. You may be sure that is what 
I shall do if it should ever come true. 

“ I am forewarned, he said, laughing. “ I shall know 
how to beguile you now that I am informed. 

“ I hope you may never have the occasion, she said. 

“ Of helping you? Do you think that is a kind wish, 
.Miss Fenton? for it is a thing which would be more de- 
lightful than anything else that could happen to me.-^^ 

Ally, being a little confused by this continuance of the 
subject, led him round by the edge of the river to the 
poplar-tree and the bench underneath. “ We used all to 
be very fond of this seat,^^ she said, “ because of the view. 
If Pen ton is going now to be nothing to us we must take 
the bench away. 

“Can it ever cease to be some tiling to you? It is the. 
home of your ancestors. 

“ Oh, yes; but one^s father is more near one than one^s 
ancestors, and if he is to have nothing to do with Pen- 
ton— 

“ You regret Penton,^^ said the lawyer, fixing his eyes 
upon her; “ then I wish my hand had been burned off be- 
fore I had anything to do with the business. 

“ Oh, what could that matter?^ ^ cried Ally. “ I am no- 


114 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


body; and besides/^ she added, with gravity, I do not 
suppose it could have been stopped by anything that either 
you or I could do/^ 

This made the young man pause; but whatever was dis- 
agreeable in it was modified by the conjunction you and 
1/^ Was it only civility, or had she unconsciously fallen 
into the trap and associated herself with him by some real 
bond of sympathy? He resumed after a j^ause, Perhaps 
we might not be able to cope with such grandees as your 
father and Mrs. Eussell Fenton, but there is nothing so 
strong as — as an association — as mutual help, donT you 
know?^^ 

Ally did not know, neither did he, what he meant. She 
replied only, Oh!^^ in a startled tone, and hurriedly 
changed the subject. Will it take a long time to draw 
out all the papers, Mr. Rochford? Why should it take so 
long? It seems so simple. 

ISTothing is simple that has to do with the law. Should 
you like it to be hurried on or to be delayed? Either thing 
could be done according as it pleased you, 

There was the slightest little emphasis upon the pronoun, 
so little that Ally perceived it first, then the next moment 
blushed with shame at having for a moment allowed herself 
to suppose that it could be meant. 

Oh, we could not wish for either one thing or another, 
she said. I shall be sorry when it is altered, and I shall 
be glad. Naturally it is Walter that feels it most.'^ 

Ah, he is the heir. 

was the heir, Mr. Rochford. I feel for him. He 
has to change all his ways of thinking, all that he was look- 
ing forward to. But why should we talk of this? I ought 
not to talk of it to any stranger. It is because you have so 
much to do with it, because you — * 

Because I am mixed up with it from the beginning,^ ^ 
he said, regretfully. How kind you are to receive me at 
all, when it was I whose fate it was to introduce so painful 
a subject. But one never knows, he went on, in a lower 
tone, when one drives up to a door that has never been 
opened to one^s steps before, what one may find there; per- 
haps the most commonplace, perhaps — he turned his 
head away a little, but not enough to make the last two 
words, uttered in a lowered but distinct voice, inaudible to 
Ally — perhaps one’s fate.” 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


115 


The girl heard them, wondered at them, felt herself grow 
pale, then red. There is something in words that mean so 
much, which convey a sort of secondary thrill of compre- 
hension without revealing their meaning all out. Ally, 
who was unprepared for the real revelation, felt that there 
was something here which was not usual to be said, which 
concerned her somehow, which made it impossible for her 
to continue the conversation calmly. She turned away to 
examine some moss on the trunk of the nearest tree. Did 
he mean her to hear that? Did he mean her not to hear? 
And what did it mean? His fate — that must mean some- 
thing, something more than people generally said to each 
other while taking a turn round the garden, whether it 
might be to see the roses or to examine the flood-marks. 

At this moment the most fortunate thing occurred — a 
thing which ended the interview without embarrassment, 
without any appearance of running away upon Aliyas parh 
Mrs. Penton suddenly appeared in the porch, which was 
within sight, holding a letter in one hand and beckoning 
with the other. She called, not Ally, but Alice!' ^ which 
in itself was enough to mark that something had occurred 
out of the common. Her voice thrilled through the still 
damp air almost with impatience; its usual calm was gone; 
it was full of life, and haste, and impetuosity — more like 
the quick voice of Anne than that of the mother. And 
then* little Horry came running out, delighted to escape out- 
of-doors in his pinafore, without cap or great-coat, or any 
wrap, his red stockings making a broken line of color as he 
ran along the damp path, his curls of fair hair blowing 
back from his forehead. 

“ Ally! Anne! — Ally! Anne!^^ he cried, mother wants 
you! Ally-Anne! mother wants you! — she wants you bovth. 
She^s got news for you bovth. Ally-Anne! Ally-Anne!'^ 
shouted the small boy. 

I^m coming, Horry, cried the girl; and from the 
other side of the house came the same cry from her sister. 
Ally entirely forgot Mr. Eochford and his fate. She ran 
home, leaving him without another thought, encountering 
midway Anne, who was flying from the poultry-yard, in 
which she had taken refuge. What was it? At their age, 
and in such simplicity as theirs, a letter suddenly arrived 
with news might mean anything. What might it not mean? 
It might mean that the queen had sent for them to Wind- 


116 


A POOR GENTLEMAI^'. 


BOY Castle, It might mean that some very great lady un- 
heard of before had invited them on the score of some old 
unknown friendship. It might mean that somebody had 
left them a fortune. The only thing it could not mean was 
something unimportant. Of that only they were assured. 

Mrs. Penton stood at the door in her excitement, with 
the letter in her hands. Her tall figure was more erect, 
her head borne higher than usual. When she saw the girls 
running from different directions she turned and went in- 
doors, and presently Walter appeared in answer to another 
summons, walking quickly up to the door. Young Eoch- 
ford, standing under the poplar looking at them, felt ridic- 
ulously out of it,^^ as he said. It would have pleased 
him to feel that he had something to do with the family, 
that their consultations were not entirely closed to him. He 
had been so much mixed up with it — all the details of their 
future means, every bit of land which they relinquished, 
.every penny of that which they got as compensation, would 
pass through his hands. He had beeen feeling of late as if 
he really had a great deal to do with the Pen to ns. But 
here arose at once a matter with which he had nothing to 
do, upon which he could not intrude himself, to which he 
was left as much a stranger as though he did not know ex- 
actly what their income would be next year. He went 
slowly into the book-room, with feelings that were utterly 
unreasonable, though not without the excuse of being nat- 
ural. The book-room, that was his place, and Mr. Penton 
and the formal business. But he must not even ask what 
was the other business which was so much more interesting, 
the letter which had been sent to Mrs. Penton, which the 
young ones had been called in stich excitement to hear, and 
no doubt to give their opinions on. He liad certainly no 
right to have an opinion on the subject, whatever it might 
be. He was only the solicitor managing an external piece 
of business — and treated with great civility and kindness — 
but nothing more. How could he be anything more? 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE INVITATION. 

Mrs. Penton was in a condition of excitement such as 
had never been seen in her before. She could not lay down 
the letter. She could not speak. She went at length and 


A POOR GEKTLEMAl^. 


117 


seated herself in the high chair — in the chair which her 
husband occupied at any great domestic crisis, when a 
council of the whole family was called. As her usual seat 
was a low one, and her usual aspect anything but judicial, 
there was no change which could haye marked the emer- 
gency like this.' It was apparent that in Mrs. Fenton’s 
mind a moment had arrived at which some important de- 
cision had to be come to, and for which she herself and not 
her husband was the natural president of the family coun- s 
cil. The young ones were a little awed by this unusual 
proceeding. There was not a stocking, nor a needle, nor 
even a reel of cotton within reach of her. She had given 
herself up to the question in hand. It might be supposed 
that the decision about Fenton, which she took her share 
in powerfully, while considering all the time how to do 
that darning, was as important a matter as could come 
within her ken; but in her own opinion the present issue 
was more exciting. She had taken that calmly enough, 
though with decision; but about this she was excited and 
•anxious, scarcely able to restrain herself. The girls ran in, 
saying, What is it, mother?” but she only motioned to 
them to sit down and wait; and it was not till Walter had 
followed with the same question that Mrs. Fenton cleared 
her throat and spoke. 

It is a letter I have just had,” she said — I have not 
even talked it over with your father. You were the first 
to be consulted, for it concerns you.” 

And then she stopped to take breath, and slowdy un- 
folded her letter. 

This,” she said, is from Mrs. Eussell Fenton. It is 
Rii — invitation; for two of you: to go to Fenton upon a 
visit — for three days. ” 

There was a joint exclamation — joint in the sense that 
the sound came all together, like a piece of concerted music, 
but each voice was individual. ^^An invitation — to Fen- 
tonl” cried Anne. ‘^From Cousin Alicia?” said Ally; 
and Not if I know it!” Walter cried; from which it will 
be seen that the one quite impartial, and ready to consider 
the matter on its merits, was Anne alone. 

Don’t come to any hasty decision,” said Mrs. Fenton, 
hurriedly; don’t let it be settled by impulse, children, 
which is what you are so ready to do. ” 

‘SSurely,” said Walter, when it’s a mere matter of 


118 


A POOR GEKTLEMAi^. 


arnusemeht, impulse is as good a way of deciding as an« 
other. I say " Not if I knovy it/ and that is all I mean to 
say. 

‘‘And, unless you say I^m to go, mother, I think like 
Wat/"^ said Ally, with unusual courage. 

“ Children, children! In the first place it^s not amuse- 
ment, and your cousin has never asked you before. Sho 
is a great deal richer, a great deal better oft* than we are. 
Stop a little. Ally and Wat. I don^t say that as if being 
rich was everything; but it is a great deal. You will meet 
better society there than anywhere else. And even though 
your father is going to part with Penton, you never can 
separate yourselves from it. We shall be called Pentons 
of Penton always, even though we never enter the house. 

“ Mother,^'’ said Wat, “ you don^t feel perhaps as I do; 
that is the best of reasons why I should never enter the house. 
So long as I was the heir, if they had chosen to ask me it 
might have been my duty; but )iotv — cried Wat, his- 
voice rising as if into a salvo of artillery. Unutterable 
things were included in that “ now.^^ 

“ Now,^^ said his mother, “ because we are giving up, 
because we are leaving the place, so to speak, it is now 
much more necessary than ever it was. Your cousins have 
done nothing that is wrong. They don^t mean to injure 
you; they are doing a very natural and a very sensible 
thing. Oh, I am not going to argue the question all over 
again; but unless you wish to insult them, to show that 
you care nothing for them, that their advances are dis- 
agreeable to you, and that youdonT want their kindness — 

“ Mother, said Walter, “ not to interrupt you, that is 
exactly what I want to do."^^ 

And Ally had her soft face set. It did not seem that the 
little face, all movable and impressionable, could have 
taken so fixed a form, as if it never would change again. 

“ You want to insult the people, Walter, who are, to be- 
gin with, your own flesh and blood. 

“ Cousins — and not full cousins — are scarcely so near as 
that,^^ said Anne, with an air of impartial calm. 

“ To insult anybody is bad enough, if they were strangers 
to you — if they were your enemies. What can be nearer 
than cousins except brothers and sisters? I say Mrs. Eus- 
sell Penton is your own flesh and blood, and I donT think 
it is very nice of you, on a subject which I must know bet- 


A POOR GEKTLEMAlir. 


110 


ter than you do, to contradict me. Your father calls Sir 
Walter uncle. How much nearer could yon be? And if 
you live long enough, Wat, you will be Sir Walter after 
him. In one sense it is like being grandson to the old gen- 
tleman, who lost- his own sons, as you know well enough. 
And is it he you would like to insult, Wat?^^ 

This made an obvious and profound impression. The 
audience were awed; their mutinous spirit was subdued. 
The domestic orator pursued her advantage without more 
than a pause for breath. 

I never knew the boys: but when I saw the Fentons 
lirst everybody was talking of it. Your father had never 
expected to succeed, oh, never! It was a tragedy that 
opened the way for him. They had no reason to expect 
that a young cousin, a distant cousin (this admission was 
no doubt contradictory of what she had just said, but it 
came in with her present argument, and she did not pause 
upon that), should ever come in. If they had hated the 
very sight of those who were to take the place of their own, 
who could wonder? I should if — oh, W^at, if it were possi- 
ble that — Osy and you — she paused a little — I feel as if 
1 should hate Horry even in such a case/^ 

The impression deepened, especially as she sto23ped with 
a low cry, to wring her hands, as if realizing that imj^ossi- 
ble catastrophe. Walter was entirely overawed. He saw 
the unspeakable pathos of the situation in a moment. Sup- 
posing Horry — Horry ! should come in to be the heir, 
something having happened to Oswald and to himself! 

DoiiT agitate yourself, mother,^^ he said, soothingly; 
I see what you mean. 

And yet you would like to insult these poor peojde, to 
refuse to see how hard it was for them, and what they have 
had to bear, oh, for so many years !^^ 

Having thus broken down all opposition, Mrs. Fenton 
made a pause, but presently resumed. 

And then from our side, children, there^s something 
to be said. I wish you to accept the invitation. I wish it 
because after all it^s your own county, and you’re of an age 
to be seen, and you ought to be seen first there. When all 
this is settled your father will be in a position to take you 
Into society a little. We shall be able to see our friends. 
If I have never gone out, it has been for that— that I could 
not invite people back again. How I may have it in my 


120 


A POOR GENTLEMAi^. 


power more or less to do this. And I want yon to be 
known— I want you to be seen and known. It is of great 
importance where young people are seen first. I can^t 
take you to courts Ally, which is the right thing, for we 
never were in circumstances to do that ourselves. And the 
next best thing is that you should be seen first in the house 
of the head of your family. ~Now all that is very impor- 
tant, and it has got sense in it, and you must now allow an 
impulse, a hasty little feeling, to get the better of what i& 
sensible and reasonable — you must not indeed. It would 
be very unkind to me, very foolish for yourselves, very 
harsh and unsympathetic to the Pentons. And you have a 
duty to all these. To them? oh, yes, to them too, for they 
are your relations, and they are old, and though they are 
prosperous now, things went very badly with them. Be- 
sides, it would be as if you disapproved of what your father 
was doing and envied them Penton: which I suppose is the 
last thing in the world you would have them to see. 

^‘ Disapproving father is one thing,^^ said Wat, “ but all 
the rest I do, and I don’t care if they know it or not. 
Penton ought to be mine. You and my father don’t think 
so — at least you think there are other things more impor- 
tant.” 

Mrs. Penton looked at her boy from her husband’s 
judicial chair with a mild dignity with which Wat was un- 
acquainted. 

“ Penton would not be yours,” she said, “ if Sir Walter 
were dead now. Would you like to step into what is your 
father’s, Wat? Would you like to say he is only to live 
five years or ten years because the inheritance is yours?. 
Your father will probably live as long as Sir Walter. I 
hope so, I am sure. He is fifty now, and that would be 
thirty-five years hence. Would Penton be yours, or would 
you be impatient for your father to die?” 

“Mother!” iliey all cried in one indignant outcry, the 
three together. 

“ It looks as if you meant that. You don’t, I know — 
but it looks like it. Sir Walter may just as well live ten 
years longer, and your father thirty years after that, so 
that you would be sixty before you succeeded to Penton. Is 
it so much worth waiting for? Is it worth while showing 
yourself envious, dissatisfied with what your father is doing. 


A POOR GENTLEMAIT. 


121 


tinkind to your relations, because, forty or fifty years hence, 
perhaps — 

Walter got up from his chair, as a man is apt to do 
when the argument becomes intolerable. Mother, he 
^aid, you know yery well that not one of those intentions 
was in my mind. I don^t want to become bosom friends 
with people who are injuring us for their own advantage; 
but as to wishing my father a single hour, a single moment 
less — or even Sir Walter — the youth cried, with a break 
in his voice. 

Oh,^^ cried Anne, with impatience, as if mother did 
not know that! Mother, the others are dreadfully unrea- 
sonable. ril go/’ 

Mrs. Penton paused a little and cleared her throat. I 
a-m afraid you are just the one that is not asked. I dare 
say your cousin thinks that you are not out, Anne: and no 
more you are, my dear. 

‘‘ She is as much out as I am, and we have always said 
when we went anywhere we should go together. Mother, 
if you wish it, of course I’ll go. ” 

‘‘And equally of course I will go too,^^ said Walter, 
somewhat indignant to be left out, “ when my mother puts 
it like that. 

“ Well, children dear,^^ said Mrs. Penton, sinking at 
once into an easier tone, “ how could I put it otherwise? 
As long as you will go pleasantly and friendly, and make 
no reflections. It is such a natural thing, so right, so ex- 
actly what should be, both for them to ask and for you to 
accept. Well now,^^ she added, briskly, coming down 
from her high chair, drawing forward her own natural seat, 
putting out an accustomed hand for her work-basket — 

now that this is all settled there are the preparations to 
think of. Walter, you must go up at once to your father^s 
tailor — to his grand tailor, you know, whom he only goes 
to now and then — and order yourself some new suits. 

“ Some new suits they all cried, with widely opened 
eyes. 

“ Yes,^^ said Mrs. Penton, who never had been known to 
enter into any such schemes of extravagance before. “ In- 
deed, we may all go to town together, for I must look after 
Aliyas things, and there is no time to be lost. 

“My — things, mother!^^ The plural in both cases was 


122 


A POOR GEiiTLEMAK. 


wliat petrified the young people^ who had been used to get 
only what could not be done without. 

You must have a nice tweed suit for the mornings 
Wat^ and some dress clothes, and your father will tell you 
whether you should get any other things for Oxford, for of 
course I am not an authority as to what young men re- 
quire. And it is so long since I have seen anything that is 
fashionable,^^ said Mrs. Penton, that I don^t really know 
even what girls wear. Girls are really more troublesome 
than boys, so far as dress is concerned. You can trust a 
good tailor, but as to what is exactly suitable to a girPs 
complexion and style, and the details, you know — the 
shoes, and the gloves, and the fan’s, and all that — 

Mother cried Ally. The girl was awe-stricken; 
pleasure had scarcely had time to spring up in her. She 
was overwhelmed with the glories which she had never 
realized before. 

Yes, my dear; there are a great many things involved 
in a girPs toilet which you would never think of; the dress 
is not all, nor nearly all. I have been so long out of the 
world, I have not even seen what people are wearing; but 
it will be easy to get a few hints. And what if we make a 
day of it, and go to town all together? Anne shall come 
too, though Anne is not going to Penton. I donT often 
allow myself a holiday, said Mrs. Penton, with her hands 
full of pinafores, ‘‘ but I think I must just do so for once 
in a way.^^ 

The idea of this wonderful outiug, which was much 
more comprehensible, besides being far more agreeable^ 
than the visit to Penton, filled them all with pleasure. 

For we know that will be fun!^^ said Anne. Penton, I 
wish you joy of it, you two! You will have to be on your 
best behavior, and never do one thing you wish to do. I 
shall have the best of it — the day in town, and the shop- 
ping, which must be amusing, and to see everything; and 
then when you are setting out for Penton, and feeling very 
uncomfortable, I shall stay at home, and be the eldest, and 
be very much looked up to. Mother, when shall we go?^^ 

‘‘ And oh, mother! how, how — 

‘‘Is it to be paid for, do you want to know. Ally: My 
dear, we are going to have four times as much income as 
we ever had before. Think of that! And can you wonder 
I am glad? for I shall be able to do things for all of you 


123 


A POOR GENTLEMAIS^ 

that I never dared think of, and, instead of only having 
^diat you couldn^t do without — enough to keep you decent 
— I can now give you what is right for you and hest for 
you. Oh, my dears, you can'^t tell what a difference it 
makes! What is a place like Penton (which I never cared 
for at all) in comparison to being able to get whatever you 
want for your children? There is no comparison. It has 
not come yet, it is true, for the papers are not ready, but 
still it is quite certain. And I can venture to take you to 
town for a day, and we can all venture to enjoy ourselves a 
little. And Pm sure I am very much obliged to Mrs. Eus- 
sell Penton for taking such a thing into her head. 

To thfs even the grumblers had nothing to say; even 
Wat himself, who perhaps was less impressed by the idea 
of two new suits from the tailor^s than his sisters were 
about their new frocks. A new suit of evening clothes can 
scarcely be so exciting to a boy as the thought of a ball- 
dress with all its ribbons and flowers and decorations, and 
those delightful adjuncts of shoes and gloves and fan all in 
harmon}^, is to a girl. Aliyas imagination was so startled 
by it that she could scarcely realize the thought in any 
practical way, and her enjoyment was nothing to Aimers, 
who mapped it all out in her mind, and already began to 
suggest to her sister what she should have, with a percep- 
tion which must have been instinct: since Anne had not 
«ven that knowledge of an evening party which any one of 
the maids who had assisted at such ceremonials might 
possess, though in a humble way. Martha, for instance, 
in her last place had helped to dress the young ladies when 
they were going out, and had got a glimpse of Paradise in 
the cloak-room when her former mistress had a ball. But 
R;las! such possibilities had never come to Ally and Anne. 
They knew nothing about the fineries in which girls in- 
dulged. Anne, however, by intuition, whatever the philoso- 
phers may say, knew, never having learned. Perhaps she 
had got a little information to guide her out of novels, of 
which, in a gentle way, Mrs. Penton herself was fond, and 
which had opened vistas of society to the two girls. 

'' You must have a white, of course,^^ she said to her 
sister, “blues and junks, and that sort of thing, may go 
out of fashion, but white never. Mother thinks you must 
have two. 

“ We are only asked for three days,^^ cried Ally, “ and 


124 


A lOUil TLEMAK. 


that only means two evenings. Why should I have more 
than one dress for only two evenings?^ ’ 

Wliy, just for that reason, you silly!'^ cried Anne. 
Do you think mother would like to send you to Pentoii 
with just what was necessar}^ to make them think you had 
only one frock? Oh, no! If you were staying for a fort- 
night of course you would not want something different 
every night; but for two days — ’’ 

“ I should much rather you had the second one, Anne.^^ 
I dare say! as if there was any question about me. I 
shall have what I require when my time comes. Don^t 
you know we are going to be well off now?^^ 

Oh, Anne! it is rather poor to think of being well off 
only as a way of getting new frocks. ^ ^ 

It is a great deal more than that, of course, but still it 
is that too. It is nice to have new frocks when one wants^ 
them, instead of waiting and w^aiting till one can have the 
cheapest possible thing that will do. We have always had 
things that would do. Now we are to have what we re- 
quire — what we like. I wish Wat and you. Ally, would see 
it as mother and I do. Perhaps it may be nice to be the 
chief people of one^s name, and be able to snub all the 
rest, even Cousin Alicia, but — 

‘^I never wished to snub any one, much less Cousin 
Alicia, cried Ally, with indignation. 

‘‘ That is really what it comes to. We wanted \o be the 
grandest of the family, to be able to say to Mrs. Eussell 
Penton, ^ Stand aside, you^re only a woman, and let Sir 
Edward walk in. And why should she be disinherited be- 
cause she^s a woman? I am going in for women, for the 
woman^s side. I dpiiT believe father is as clever as she is. 
Oh, to be sure I like father a great deal better. How could 
you ask such a question? But he rather looks up to her; 
he is not so clever; he couldn’t set one down as she does, 
only by a look out of her eyes. No, no, no; a new frock 
when one wants it, and to go to town for the day, and even 
to the theater, or to have a dance at home — all that is far, 
far better than snubbing Cousin Alicia. But,^’’ added 
Anne, with sudden gravity, for you that have got to go 
and stay there, it is rather dreadful after all. 


A POOR GEISTLEMAK. 


125 


CHAPTER XVL 

THE PRIMROSE PATH. 

Walter Pentoh had been the most satisfactory of sons; 
and brothers. Ho had not rebelled much even against the 
discipline of reading aloud. He was only twenty, and there 
was nothing to do in the neighborhood of the Hook, espe- 
cially in the evening, so that circumstances had helped to* 
make him good. He had, to tell the truth, taken a great 
interest in the novels, so much as to be tempted often to 
carry off the current volume and see how it ended by 
himself, which the girls thought very mean of him. But 
very rarely, except in summer, .or when there was some 
special attraction out-of-doors, had he declined to aid the 
progress of the pinafores, in his way, by reading. But 
lately he had not been so good. Perhaps it was because 
there was a moon, and the evenings had been particularly 
bright; but he had not asked the girls to share his walks,, 
as formerly it had been so natural to do. Sometimes he 
did not come into the drawing-room at all after tea, but 
would intimate that he had work to do, especially now,, 
when, if he were really going to Oxford, it was necessary 
for him to rub up his Greek a little. Nobody could say 
that this was not perfectly legitimate and in fact laudable; 
and though the ladies were disappointed they could make 
no' complaint, especially as in the general quickening of 
the family life there was, for the moment, many things to 
talk of, which made reading aloud less necessary. For in- 
stance, on the evening of the day which they had spent in 
town there was no occasion for reading. The most excit- 
ing romance could not have been more delightful than the 
retrospect of that delightful day. ^They all went up to- 
gether by the early train. Mr. Penton himself had said 
that he thought he might as well go too, and accompany 
Walter to the tailor’s, as that was a place in which ladies 
were inadmissable; and accordingly they parted at the rail- 
way, the mother and the girls going one way, and the fa- 
ther and his boy another — both parties with a sense of the 
unusual about them which made their expedition exhilarat- 
ing. To spend money when you feel (and that for the first 


12(j 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


time) that you can afford it is of itself exhilarating, espe- 
cially (perhaps) to women who have little practice in this 
amusement, and to whom the sight of the pretty things in 
the shops is a pleasure of a novel kind. It was a matter of 
very serious business indeed to the ladies, carrying with it a 
profound sense of responsibility. Two evening dresses, for 
a girl who had never had anything better than the simplest 
muslin! and a costume for morning wear of the most 
complete kind, with everything in keeping, jacket and hat 
and gloves. The acquisition of this could scarcely be called 
pleasure. It was too solemn and important, a thing the 
accomplishment of which carried with it a certain sensation 
of awe; for what if it should not be quite in the fashion? 
what if it should be too much in the fashion? too new, too 
old, not having received the final approval of those au- 
thorities which rule the world? Sometimes a thing may be 
very pretty, and yet not secure that verdict; or it may be 
onal porte, as the French say, worn first by some one whose 
adoption of it is an injury. All these tilings have to be 
considered: and when the purchasers are country people, 
ignorant people who do not know what is going to be worn! 
So that the responsibility of the business fully equaled its 
pleasantness, and it was only when the more important de- 
cisions were made, and the attention of the buyers, at too 
high a tension in respect to other articles, came down to 
the lighter and easier consideration of ribbons and gloves, 
that tlie good of the expedition began to be fully enjoyed. 
And then they all had luncheon together, meeting when 
their respective business was executed. Mr. Fenton took 
them to a place which was rather a dear place, which he 
had known in his youth, when all the places he had known 
were dear places. It was perhaps, a little old-fashioned 
too, but this they were not at all aware of. And the lunch 
he had ordered was expensive, as Mrs. Fenton had divined. 
She said as much to the girls as they drove from their shop 
to the rendezvous. She said, I know your father will 
order the very dearest things. And so he had; but they 
enjoyed it all the more. The extravagance itself was a 
pleasure. It was such a thing as had never happened in 
all their previous experience; a day in town, a day shop- 
ping, and then a grand luncheon and a bottle of cham- 
pagne. If we are going to be so much better off' they 
may as well get the good of it,^^ Mr. Fenton replied, in an- 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


127 


swer to his wife’s half-hearted remonstrance. For she too 
found a pleasure in the extravagance. Her protest was 
quite formal; she too was quite disposed for it once in a 
way — just to let them know, in the beginning of their 
mended fortune, what a little pleasure was. 

And when they came home, bringing sugar-plums and a 
few toys for the little ones, they were all a little tired with 
this unusual, this extraordinary dissipation. After tea the 
jRiiafores did not make much progress; they were too much 
excited to care to go on with their reading. They wanted 
to talk over everything and enjoy it a second time more at 
their leisure. They had shaken off the sense of responsi- 
bility, and only felt the pleasure of the holiday, which was 
so rare in their life. Mr. Penton himself was seduced into 
making comparison of the London of which they had thus had 
a flying glimpse with the London he had known in the old 
days, and into telling stories of which somehow the point 
got lost in the telling, but which had been, as he said, 

very amusing at the time;” while the girls listened and 
laughed, not at his stories so much as out of their own con- 
sciousness that it had all been fun,” even the inconveni- 
ences of the day, and the prosiness of those inevitable tales. 
Mrs. Penton was the one who subsided most easily out of 
the excitement. But for a little look of complacence,, 
an evident sense that it was she who had procured them all 
this pleasure, there was less trace in her than in any of the 
others of the day’s outing. She drew her work-basket to 
her as usual after tea. She was not to be beguiled out of 
her evening’s work; but she smiled as she went on with 
her darning, and listened to the father’s stories, and the 
saucy commentaries of the girls, with a happy abandon- 
ment of all authority in consideration of the unusual char- 
acter of the day. The only thing that brought a momentary 
shadow over the party was that Walter was not there. 

There is no moon to-night, but Wat is off again for 
one of his walks. I wonder what has made him so fond of 
walks, just when we want him at home?” the girls cried. 
And then a little mist came over his mother’s eyes. She 
said, ‘^Hush! he is probably at his Greek;” but whether 
she believed this or not nobody could say. 

Walter, it need scarcely be said, was not at his Greek. 
He went up the road toward the village with long strides 
devouring the way, though there was no moon nor any visi- 


128 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 


ble inducement. The village was as quiet a spot as could 
be found in all England. The only lights it showed were 
in a few cottage windows, or glimmering from behind the 
great holly-bushes at the rectory; a little bit of a straggling 
street, with an elbow composed of a dozen little houses, low 
.and irregular, which streamed away toward the dark and 
silent fields, with the church, the natural center, rising half 
seen, a dark little tower pointing upward to the clouds. 
There was scarcely any one about, or any movement save 
at the public-house, where what was quite an illumination 
in the absence of other lights — the red glow of the fire, and 
the reflection of a lamp through a red curtain — streamed 
out into the road, making one warm and animated spot inf 
the gloom. AVat, however, did not go near that center of 
rustic entertainment. He stopped at a low wall which sur- 
rounded a cottage on the outskirts — a cottage which had 
once been white, and had still a little grayness and lumi- 
nousness of aspect which detached it from the surrounding- 
darkness. A few bristling dry branches of what w^as in 
summer a bit of hedge surrounded the low projection of 
the wall. Walter paused there, where there "Was nothing- 
visible to pause for. The night was dark. A confused 
blank of space, where in daylight the great stretch of the 
valley lay, was before him, sending from afar a fresh breath 
of wind into his face, while behind him, in the nearer dis- 
tance, shone the few cottage lights, culminating in the red 
glow from the Penton Arms. What did he want at this 
corner with his back against the wall? Nothing, so far as 
any one could see. He made no signal, gave forth no 
sound, save that occasionally his feet made a stir on the 
beaten path as he changed his position. They got tired, 
but Walter himself was not tired. Presently came the 
faint sound of a door opening, and a flitting of other feet 
— light, short steps that scarcely seemed to touch the 
ground — and then the gate of the little garden clicked, 
and, heard, not visible, something came out into the road. 

‘‘ Oh, are you here again, Mr. Walter? Why have you 
come again? You know I donT want you here. 

“ AVhy shouldnT you want me? I want to come; it^s 
my pleasure. 

The voice of the young man had a deeper tone, a man- 
lier bass than its usual youthful lightness coming through 
the dark, and the great space and freedom of the night. 


A POOR OEN^TLEMAN. 


129 


a strange pleasure/’ said tlie other voice. “‘I 
should not think it any pleasure were I in your place. If 
even there was a moon! for people that are fond of the 
beauties of nature that is always something. But now it is 
so dark ” — there seemed a sort of shiver in the voice. 
The dark is a thing I can^t abide, as they say here.” 

For my part, I like it best. Come this way, where the 
view is, and you would think you could see it — that is, you 
can feel it, which is almost more. Don’t you know what 
I mean: The wind blows from far away; it comes from 
miles of space, right out of the sky. You could feel even 
that the landscape was below you, from the feel of the air.” 

That is all very pretty,” she said, and this time there 
was the indication of a yawn in her tone, but if it is only 
for the sake of the landscape, one can see that when it’s 
day, and feeling it is a superfluity in the dark. If that was 
all you came for — ” 

I did not come for that at all, as you know. I came 
for — it would be just the same to me if there was no land- 
scape at all, if it was a street corner — ” 

‘‘ Tinder a lamp-post! Oh, that is my ideal!” with a lit- 
tle clap of her hands. What I would give to see a lamp 
again, a bright, clear, big light, like Oxford Street or the 
Circus! You think that is very vulgar, I know.” 

Clothing is vulgar if you like it. I. should like lamj)- 
posts too if they had associations. I saw plenty of them 
to-day, and I wished I could have had you there to take 
you for a walk past the shop windows, since you are so fond 
of them.” 

Oh, the shop windows! Don’t talk to a poor exile of 
her native country that she is pining for! So you were hi 
town; and what did you see there?” 

Nothing,” said Wat. 

Nothing! — in London! You must be the very dullest, 
or the most obstinate, or prejudiced — Nothing! why, 
everything is there!” 

You were not there; that makes all the difference. I 
kept thinking all the time where I should have found you 
had you been in London. You never will tell me where 
you live, or how can I see you when you go back.” 

I:.am not going back yet, worse luck,” she said. 

‘‘But that is no answer. I kept looking out to-day to 
see if I could find any place which looked as if you might 


130 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


have lived there. The only place I saw like you was in 
Park Lane, and that, I suppose — 

Park Lane!^^ she cried, with a suppressed laugh; 
‘‘ that was like old Crockford^s niece. I could receive all 
my relations then.'^^ 

You are not old Orockford^s niece? 

No, I told you — I am a heroine in trouble, she said. 
Her laugh was perhaps a little forced, but if Walter ob- 
served that at all it only increased the interest and fascina- 
tion of such a paradox as might have startled a wiser man. 

And is town very empty: she said. But the streets 
will be gay and the shop windows bright because of Christ- 
mas — there is always a little movement before Christmas, 
and things going on. And to think that I shall see noth- 
ing — not so much as a pantomime — buried down here!^^ 

I thought most people came to the country for Christ- 
mas,^^ said Wat. 

Oh, the sw — ; why shouldn't I say it right out? — the 
swells you mean; but we are not swells in my place. We 
enjoy ourselves with all our hearts. 

‘‘ I am sorry you think it so dull in the country,'^ said 
poor Wat. ‘‘I wish you liked it better. If you had been 
brought up here, like me — but of course that is impossible. 
Perhaps when you get better used to it — 

I shall never be used to it; I am on the outlook, doiiH 
you know? for some one to take me back.^^ 

DonT say that,"" said Walter, ''it hurts me so. I 
should like to reconcile you to this place, to make you fond 
of it, so that you should prefer to stay here."" 

" With whom? with old Crockford?"" she said. 

Walter was very young, and trembled with the great flood 
of feeling that came over him. " Oh, if I had only a pal- 
ace, a castle, anything that was good enough for you! but 
I have nothing — nothing you would care for. That is what 
makes it odious beyond description, what makes it more 
than I can bear."" 

" What is more than you can bear?"" 

" Losing Penton,"" cried the young man; "I told you. 
If Penton were still to be mine I know what I should say. 
It is not a cottage like Crockford "s, nor a poor muddy sort 
of place like the Hook. It is a house worthy even of such 
as you. But I am like the disinherited knight, I have 
nothing till I work for it."" 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


131 


That is a great pity/^ she said; I have seen Penton; 
it is a beautiful place. It seems silly, if you have a right 
to it, to give it up."" 

‘‘ You think so too!"" he cried; 1 might have known 
you would have thought so; but I am only my father "s 
son, and they doii"t consult me. If I had any one to stand 
by me I might have resisted — any one else, whose fortune 
was bound up in it as well as mine."" 

Yes: what a pity in that case that you were not mar- 
ried,"" she said. 

I might be still,"" cried Walter, with tremulous vehe- 
mence, ‘‘ if you would have faith in me — if you would for- 
get what I am, a nobody, and think what, with such a 
hope, I might be."" 

I!"" there was a sound of mocking in the laughing 
voice; what have I got to do with it? What would those 
great swells at Penton think if they knew you were saying 
such things to old Orockford"s niece."" 

It is they who have nothing to do with it,"" he cried. 

• ‘ Do you think if you were to trust me that I should care 
what they — But oh, don"t, don"t call yourself so, you 
know it is not true; not that it matters if you were. You 
would to me, all the same, be always yourself, and that 
means everything that a woman can be."" 

There was a pause before she replied, and her voice was 
a little softened. They will never know anything about 
me at Penton, or anywhere else. I have come here in the 
dark; you have scarcely seen me in daylight at all, for all 
you are so silly. "" 

Yes, a hundred times,"" cried Walter. ‘‘ Do you 
think you can go out that I don"t see you? I live about 
the roads since you have been here. "" 

It is a pity,"" she said, with a little sharpness, that 
j'ou have nothing better to do;"" then, resuming her lighter 
tone, If you don"t soon begin to do something a little 
more practical how are you ever to be — that somebody that 
you were offering to me?"" 

It is true,"" he said, ‘Mt is true; but don"t blame me. 
I am going to Oxford next month, and then, if I do not 
work — "" 

To Oxford! But that's not work, that"s only educa- 
tion,"" she cried, with a faint mixture of something like 
disappointment in her voice. 


182 


A POOR GEKTLEMAJT. 


Education is work; it opens up everything. It gives a 
man a name. I have been kept back; but, oh, now, if you 
will say I may look forward — if you will say I may hope. 

Look forward to what she said; ^‘to come up here 
every evening, and invite me out to talk in the cold at the 
corner of old Crockford^s wall? I do not mind, for IVe 
nothing else to amuse me now: and you have nothing else 
to amuse you, so far as I can see; but, presently I shall dis- 
appear like a will-o’-the-wisp, and what will you look for- 
ward to then?” 

That is what I say,” he said. ‘‘ I feel it every day. 
You will go away, and what am I to do, where am I to find 
you? Every morning when 1 wake it is the first thing I 
think of — perhaps she may be gone, and not a trace, not 
an indication, left behind, not even a name.” 

‘‘ Oh, it is not so bad as that. You know my name, but 
I tell you always it is a great deal better you should know no 
more, for what is the use? You are going to Oxford, where 
you will be for years and years before you can do anything. 
And at present you are the disinherited knight and I am 
a will-o’-the-wisp. Very well. We play about a little and 
amuse each other, and then you will ride off and I shall 
dance away. ” 

hio, no, no; for the sake of pity, if not for love — ” 

What has a will-o’-the-wisp to do with these sort of 
things, or a young man at colleger At college! it is only 
a school-boy a little bigger. Ride off, ride off*. Sir Disin- 
herited Knight; and as for me, it’s my part to go dancing, 
dancing away. ” 

And she was gone, disappearing with no sound but the 
little click of the gate, the pat of those footsteps which 
scarcely touched the ground, snatching from him the hand 
which he had tried to take, the hand which he had never 
yet been allow^ed to hold for a moment. He stood for a 
lime at the corner of the wall, tantalized, tremulous, try- 
ing to persuade himself that she was not really gone, that 
she would appear again, a shadow out of the darkness. 
This was all he had seen of her except in distant glimpses, 
although their intercourse had gone so far. He was ready 
to pledge his life to her, and yet this was all he knew. 
Walter thought to himself as he went slowly down the hill, 
all thrilling with this interview, that never had there •been 
such a courtship before. He was proud of it, poor boy. 


A POOE GEKTLEMAK. 


133 


There was something rapturous in its strangeness, in the 
fact that he did not even know her name, nothing but 
Emmy, which he had heard Martha call her. Emmy did 
not mean much, yet it was all he knew. He called her in 
his heart by names out of the poets — Una, Rosalind, 
Elaine. She was as much a creature of romance as any of 
them. He dreamed in those sweet dreams awake which are 
the privilege of youth, of seeing her flash out upon him 
from unimaginable surroundings, a princess, a peerless 
lady, something noble and great, something not to be put 
on the level of ordinary women. What she was doing in 
this cottage he scarcely asked himself — she who belonged to 
sQ different a sphere. But it was sweet to him to think 
that his love was so original, unlike that of any one else. 
His head was full of an intoxication of pleasure, of pride 
and wonder. Nobody had ever had such a story. Ah, if 
he had but Pen ton to take her home to! But anyhow he 
could conquer fortune for the sake of this sweet unknown. 

This was how Walter spent his evenings while the others 
sat round the household lamp. He had the best of it. 
While Allv was thinking only of the visit to Penton, or at 
least of nothing else that she allowed even to herself, Wat, 
only two years older, felt himself standing on the threshold 
of an illimitable future, full of everything that was wonder- 
ful and sweet. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

GOING INTO THf WOBLD. 

It was very near Christmas when Walter and Ally went 
to Penton on the visit which had caused so much excite- 
ment. It had been arranged that on Ohristmas-eve they 
should return, for to spend that day away from their fam- 
ily was impossible, a thing not to be done had the invitation 
come from royalty itself. They went with all their new 
things so nicely packed, and their hearts beating, and 
many warnings and recommendations from the most care- 
ful of mothers. 

Wat, be careful that you never, never let them see, if 
it was only by a look, that you do not agree with what your 
father is doing. You must not let him down among his 
relations. You must let them see that what he does — 


134 


A POOK GEKTLEMAK. 

Oh, Wat, you must be very particular to show a proper 
pride. Don^t look as if you had any grudge; don ^t let 
them suppose — 

‘‘I hope I am not quite a fool,^^ said the indignant youth. 

A fool! I never thought you were a fool; but you are 
young, my dear boy, and you feel strongly. And, Ally! 
mind you don^t show that you are unaccustomed to the sort 
of service and waiting upon that is natural there. If your 
cousin oifers to send her maid to help you, don^t you come 
out with, ^ Oh, no; I do everything for myself at home.^ 
I don^t want you to say anything that is not true. But, as 
a matter of fact, you don^t do everything for yourself at 
home. What does it matter to Mrs. Russell Penton whether 
you have a maid or whether it is Anne and I that help 
you? You always are helped, you know. Say, ‘ Oh, [ 
think I can manage quite well, ^ or something of that sort. 

But, mother. Cousin Alicia must know how we live, 
and that I have no maid at home.^^ 

Oh, they never think, these great ladies; they take it 
for granted that everybody has everything just as they have. 
Most probably she would think it was my fault if she heard 
that you had no maid. And, Ally! don^t be so shy as you 
usually are; don^t keep behind backs; remember that the 
only thing you can do for people who wish you to stay with 
them is to be as friendly as possible, and to talk, and help 
to amuse tliem.^^ 

I— to amuse Cousin Alicia, mother!^^ 

“ Well, dear, as much as you can. Amuse perhaps is 
not the word : but you must not sit as if you were cut out 
of wood or stone. And, Wat! if there is shooting or any- 
thing going on, just do what the other gentlemen do. I 
have always heard that Mr. Russell Penton was very nice; 
you will be quite right if you keep your eye upon him. 

One would think we were going to court, where there 
are all kinds of etiquettes, .to hear you speak, mother. 

Well, my dears, there are all sorts of etiquettes every- 
where; and in one way it is easier at CQurt, for if you don^t 
understand there is nothing wonderful in that, and every 
one is willing to tell you: whereas in a grand house you are 
supposed to know everything by nature. I don^t doubt at 
all that things will go on quite comfortably and all right. 
But, Ally, dear — 

‘‘Mother, doiiH bother her any more, cried Anne. 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


135 


She will be so frightened she will never venture to open 
her lips at all^ for fear she should say something wrong. I 
wish it was only me.^’ 

“ Oh;, so do cried Ally, from the bottom of her heart. 

And said Wat; ‘‘ any one may have my share. 

‘‘ That is just how things are — always contrairy, as Mar- 
tha says. I should have rather enjoyed it. I should have 
liked to see everything. Cousin Alicia might have put on 
her icy face as much as she liked, she would not have 
frozen me. But we canT change places now at the last 
moment, and the fly will have to be paid for if it waits. 
Come, Ally, come! for sooner or later you know you must 
go. 

Anne and her mother stood and watched the reluctant 
pair as they drove away with a mingled sense of envy and 
relief. The fly from the village was not a triumphal 
chariot; the old gray horse had a dilapidated aspect; the 
day was damp and rainy. 

“ We may be afloat before you come back,''^ said Anne, 
waving her hand. 

And then they left the door and the house out of sight, 
and departed into the unknown. Into the unknown! 
If it had been to Eussia it could not have been further 
away, nor could the habits and customs of a foreign coun- 
try have been more alarming to the young adventurers. 
They were so much overawed that they said little to each 
other. Ally drew back into the corner of the carriage, 
Walter looked out of the opposite window. They were in 
a moment separated by half a world, though the same rug 
was tucked round both their knees. The boy looked out 
with an eagerness which he could scarcely conceal for some- 
thing tangible, something of which his mind was full. The 
girl drew back into a vague delightful world of dreams in 
which there was nothing definite. Who was it that had 
said to her something about driving up unthinking to a 
door within which you might meet your fate. Who was 
it? she asked herself, and yet she remembered very well 
who it was; and as she drove along there rose before her a 
whole panorama of shifting, changing pictures. She was 
standing again by the muddy, turbid river, and hearing, as 
in a dream, the first words of wooing, the suggested devo- 
tion, the under-current of an inference which made her the 
chief interest, the center of the world: which is such a thing 


136 


A POdE GENTLEMAN*. 


as may well startle any girl into attention. And then the 
scenery changed, and the new world opened, and other, 
vaguer figures, yet more wonderful, appeared about her, 
some of them with that same look in their eyes, flow did 
Ally know what might be waiting for her in that home of 
romance, that wonderful house of Penton, with which all 
the visions of her life had been connected? Sometimes 
when one is not thinking one drives up to a door and finds 
inside oneV fate. What does that mean — one^s fate? 
Young Eochford had. given her to understand that he had 
found his when he arrived at Penton flook, and the words 
had vaguely seized upon Aliyas imagination, filling her with 
a curious thrill of sensation. His fate! She did not think 
of this with compunction or regret, as one who more thor- 
oughly recognized what was meant might have done. It 
moved her rather to an excited, half-awed sense of power in 
herself which she did not understand before, than to any 
sympathy for him. She thought in the keen consciousness 
of awakening, of herself, and not of him. It was wrong; 
it was a guilty sort of selfishness: but she could not help it. 
His words, which had first opened her eyes— his looks, which 
perhaps a little earlier had lighted a spark of perception, 
had been like the sounding of the reveille — like the rising 
of a morning star. She was not to blame for it; she had 
done nothing which could connect her with his fate, as he 
called it. It was a summons to her to behold and recog- 
nize her own position, the wonderful, mysterious position, 
which a woman — a girl — seemed to be born to, wMch she 
had been thrust into without any doing of hers. 

When the fancy is first touched, the thoughts that follow 
are sweet — sweeter perhaps than anything that can succeed 
— in their perfectly indefinite exhilaration and vague sense 
of a personal beatitude that scarcely anything else can 
bring. This does not always mean love, which is a differ- 
ent effect. Ally knew nothing about love; she only felt in 
all her being the new and wonderful power of awakening 
emotion in others, of which nobody had ever told her, and 
which she had never dreamed of as appertaining to herself. 
She had read of it as being possessed by others — by the 
beautiful maidens of romance, by ladies moving in those 
dazzling spheres of society which were altogether beyond 
the reach and even the desires of a little country girl. But 
Ally knew very well that she was not a great beauty, nor so 


A POOR GENTLEMAJf. 


137 


clever and gifted as those heroines were who in noyels and 
romances brought all the world to their feet. She enter- 
tained no delusions on this subject. She was not beautiful 
at all, nor clev^' at all. She .was only Ally: and yet she 
liad it in her power to bring that look into another's eyes. 
It was more strange, more thrilling, sweet, confusing than 
words could say. 

As for Walter, his imaginations were far m.ore definite. 
They were very definite indeed, distant as every anticipa- 
tion was. He looked out to see one figure, one face, which 
he could not look out upon calmly, with a spectator by his 
side, which he longed yet feared to behold in the daylight, 
in the midst of a world awake and observant, with Ally 
looking on. He expected nothing but to be questioned on 
the subject — to be asked what he was looking for, why he 
leaned out of the window, what there was to see. When it 
dawned upon him that Ally meant to ask no questions, that 
she had the air of taking no notice, he became susjiicious 
and uneasy, thinking that she must mean something by her 
silence, that there was more in it than met the eye. By 
nature she would have asked him a hundred questions. 
She would have looked, too, wondering what he could 
possibly expect to see on the road or in the village that 
could be interesting. Walter said to himself that some 
report must have reached home of those expeditions of his 
to Crockford^s cottage, and that Ally must have been told 
to watch, not to excite his suspicions by questioning, to be 
on the alert for whatever might happen. He turned his 
back to her and blocked up the window with his head and 
shoulders as they drove past Crockford^s. And there, in- 
deed, was the face he longed to see looking out from the 
cottage window, staring at him maliciously, with a smile 
which was not a smile of recognition, defying him, as it 
seemed, to own the acquaintance. A great panic was in 
Walter’s heart. To betray this secret, to make it visible to 
the eyes of the world — ^. e., to the old rector, who, as ill- 
luck would have it, was strolling past at the moment, tak- 
ing his afternoon walk, and of Ally w^atching him from her 
corner — was terrible to the young man. And to expose 
himself to be questioned — to be asked wdio she was (which 
he did not know), and where he had met her, and a hun- 
dred other details; perhaps to be solemnly warned that he 
must see her no more! All these reflections flashed through 


138 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 

AValter^s spirit. She was evidently in the mind to take no 
notice of him, to own no acquaintance; and there were so 
many temptations on his side to do the same, to make his 
eyes do all his salutations, to avoid giving any satisfaction 
to the spies about. But his instincts as a gentleman were 
too much for Walter. He leaned a little further out of the 
window and took off his hat. How could he pass the place 
where she was, and look at her and make no sign? It was 
impossible! Walter took off' his hat with a heroism scarce- 
ly to be surpassed on the perilous breach. It might be 
ruin; it might mean discovery, betrayal; he might be sent 
away, banished from his gates of paradise; but, whatever 
happened, he could not be disrespectful to her. 

She did not return the salutation, but she opened the 
window and looked out after the carriage, putting out into 
the damp air what Walter within himself called her beauti- 
ful head. It was not, strictly speaking, a beautiful head, but 
it had various elements of beauty — dark eyes full of light; 
a crop of soft brown silky hair, clustering in curly short 
luxuriance; a complexion pale and clear, but lightly touched 
with color; and a mouth which was really a wonder of a 
mouth beside the oi’dinary developments of that universally 
defective feature. She looked after him with mockery in 
her eyes, which only attracted the foolish boy the more, 
and made him half frantic to spring from his place in the 
sight of the village and put himself at her feet. It would 
have cost her nothing to give him a smile, a wave of her 
hand; and there was no telling what it might cost him to 
have taken off his hat to her; but she was immovable. He 
gazed, as long as he could see anything, out of the carriage 
window. At least, if he had sacrificed himself he should 
get the good of it, and look, and look, as long as eyes could 
see. 

How d’ye do? — how d’ye do?” cried the rector, wav- 
ing his hand toward the carriage. Perhaps he thought that 
the salutation was for him, the old bat. Walter drew in 
his head again, and looked with keen suspicion at his sister 
in her corner, who raised her eyes, which seemed heavy 
(could she have been asleep?), with a dreamy sort of smile, 
totally unlike the smile of a spy maturing her observations, 
and asked. 

Who was that?’^ 

Who was what?” 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


139 


‘^The voice/^ said Ally, ''in the street — 'How d'ye 
do?"' 

" It was the rector — who else should it be? Do you 
mean to say you did not see him going along the road?" 

" No, I did not see him," said Ally, with that dreamy, 
imbecile sort of smile. She had seen nothing, noticed 
nothing! And the rector had taken it for granted that the 
greeting had been for himself, and thought young Walter 
was very civil: and all had passed over with perfect safety, 
as if it had. been the most natural thing in the world. 
Walter fell back into the other corner, and thus the brother 
and sister swung and jolted along, each in a beatitude and 
agitation of his (and her) own. Perhaps there was a subtle 
sort of sympathy in the silence. They did not say any- 
thing to each other until they had turned in at the gates, 
and were stumbling along the avenue at Penton under the 
pine-trees, all bare and "moaning. This roused them in- 
stinctively, although their dreams were more absorbing 
than anything else in earth or heaven. 

Here we are at last," said Ally, rousing herself, but 
speaking under her breath. 

" Not yet; don't you know the avenue is nearly a mile 
long? And don't be frightened — remember what mother 
said." 

" Oh, not frightened," she cried, but caught her breath 
a little. "Wat, I wish it was over, and we were going 
home." 

" So do I, Ally; but we must go through with it now we 
are here." 

" Oh, I suppose so. Will she be waiting at the door, do 
you think, or come to meet us? or will they tell us she is 
out, and offer to show us our rooms, and send us tea?" 

" As they do in novels to the poor relations? I hope 
they will have better taste," said Walter, growing red, 
"than to try the poor relation dodge with us. Oh, no! 
Mrs. Russell Penton knows that she is still more or less in 
our power." 

" I wish the first was over,'^ said Ally; " it may not 
perhaps seem so dreadful after that." 

And in this not ecstatic state of mind they drew up at 
the door, where the footman who came out looked with 
contempt at the shabby village fly. Mrs. Russell Penton 
had been walking, and was coming in at that moment. 


140 


A POOR OEKTLEMAK. 


with a little chubby-faced girl by her side. Cousin Alicia 
and her companion took in every feature of the shabby fly, 
the old horse, the driver with his patched coat, as they 
came forward. It was almost more dreadful than what 
Walter called the poor relation dodge,^’ though Mrs. 
Eussell Periton was so civil as to come to the door of the 
fly, which was difiicult to open, to receive her visitors. Al- 
ready, before even they entered the house, their poverty had 
thus been put to shame. Neither of them, indeed, made 
much account of the little round-faced stranger who stood 
lot)king on, with her mouth a little open, watching their 
disembarkation. Nothing could look more insignificant 
than this little girl did. She might have been a little wait- 
ing-maid, an attendant, not smart enough fora sonbretfs ; 
even Mrs. Eussell Penton took no notice, did not introduce 
her, but left her standing as if she were of no importance, 
while she herself conducted Ally upstairs. Walter himself, 
in the confusion of the arrival, had nearly followed without 
thinking. But fortunately (wliich was a great satisfaction 
to him afterward) that habit of good-breeding which would 
not let him pass Crockford^s cottage without taking off his 
hat, inspired him to stand back, and let the little maid, as 
he thought her, pass in before him. She did this with a 
little blush and shy bow, and ran through the hall out of 
sight, as a little person in what was presumably her posi- 
tion would do; and Walter followed his sister upstairs. He 
felt that there was nothing to complain of in the matter of 
their reception, at least. They were not being treated as 
poor relations. Whatever might happen afterward, there 
was a certain soothing in that. 


CHAPTEE XVIIL 

PREPARATIONS' FOR THE GUESTS. 

The arrival of the visitors had not been unattended with 
excitement at Penton itself. Little Mai) Eussell, the great 
heiress, had reached the house only a few days before, and 
as her uncle^s stately wife, was an object of some alarm to 
her, the prospect of a companion of her own age was doubly 
agreeable. Mab was the daughter of a brother of Mr. Eus- 
sell PentoiPs, who had never been of much account in the 
family, who had gone abroad and made a great fortune^ 


A. POOR GENTLEMAN. 


141 


and died, leaving this one little girl rich enough to cause a 
flutter in whatever society she came into, as good as an es- 
tate, much better than most appointments for any young 
man in want of an establishment. Eussell Peiiton had 
taken from the first a whimsical sort of interest in her, 
which did not show itself in the way in which interest is 
usually exhibited by elderly relations. To shield her from 
fortune-hunters, to find some equal match in which the ad- 
vantage should not be altogether on the gentleman^s side, 
did not seem to be a thing which entered into his thoughts, 
lie spoke of her with a faint laugh full of humor and a 
realization of all the circumstances such as few men would 
have made apparent. With the charitable and amused eyes 
of a man who had himself, being poor, married an heiress, 
he looked at all the flutterers who had already appeared in 
MabeFs youthful train. He was tolerant of the young 
men. He laughed half abashed, half sympathetic, at their 
little wiles, asking himself had he made his intentions so 
transparent as that? and putting forth his little measures 
of defense without any of the hard words that generally ac- 
company such precautions. When other people warned the 
little girl against the dangers to which she was subject — 
and she had already receive many warnings to this effect, 
even from Mrs. Eussell Penton herself, who was one of the 
most anxious of her advisers — Mabel had been greatly com- 
forted to find that her uncle Gerald only laughed. The 
little girl did not quite understand the combination; for 
when Gerald laughed, his wife grew more grave than ever 
and anxious to protect the heiress. Why does Uncle 
Gerald laugh?^^ she had asked one day. And Mrs. Eussell 
Penton had grown very red, and said something about his 
inclination to see a joke in the gravest subjects, which 
Mabel, who was very fond of her uncle, thought severe. 
And their several accounts of the expected visitors per- 
plexed her more and more. 

“ I hope, my dear, Mrs. Eussell Penton said, ‘^that 
you will find my godchild pleasant. I can give you very 
little information about her, I am ashamed to say. We 
have been so much out of England — and though they are 
relations, they are rather out of our sphere.’^ 

Poor,^^ said her husband, ‘‘ but not the less agreeable 
for that.*’ 

I would not go so far,” said Alicia, in her grave way. 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


142 

“ To be poor is of course nothing against them, but un- 
fortunately poverty does affect the training, and manners, 
and ways of thinking. I should have preferred not to have 
them when you were here, but circumstances, which I could 
not resist — 

It is kind of you, Alfeia, not to say over which you 
had no control: for the circumstances, I fear, were your 
unworthy uncle, Mab. I wanted them; and my wife, who 
is very good always, and ready to please me, gave in, which 
is generally more than I deserve. 

Why did you want them, Uncle Gerald?^’ Mab in- 
quired. 

“ There is a big question he answered, laughing; ‘‘ am 
I to lay bare all my motives to this little thing, and let her 
see the depths of my thoughts?^^ 

And why did Aunt Gerald not want them?^^ pursued 
Mab. She had no genius or even much intelligence to 
speak of; but the fact of being an heiress has a very matur- 
ing influence, and little Mab was aware of a thing or two 
which has not been formulated in any philosopher. She 
inspected the two people who were so much older and wiser 
than she with very shrewd and wide-open eyes. 

‘‘ My motives are clear enough,^^ said Mrs. Russell Pen- 
ton, with a look at her husband which would have been 
angry if she had not had so much respect for him, and 
warning if she had not known how impracticable he was. 

I felt it my duty to your family, my dear, that you should 
make no unsuitable acquaintances, nor run the risk per- 
haps of contracting likings, I mean friendships— I mean be- 
coming perhaps attached to people who would not prove to 
be the kind of people you ought to know, in my — in our 
house. 

This very complicated sentence, so unlike the lucidity of 
Mrs. Russell Penton^s usual conversation, was entirely due 
to the fact that her husband ^s eyes, with a laugh in them, 
were upon her all the time she was speaking. Mab^s aston- 
ished exclamation, ‘‘ But youi; relations. Aunt Gerald — I 
have always heard that your farhily — 

‘‘ I can scarcely say that these young people belong to 
my family. They are the children of a distant cousin. 
Their mother I scarcely know. They have not been brought 
np as — you have been, for instance. They will not know 
any of the people you know. In short — but, of course, as 


A POOR GEIS^TLEMAIT. 


143 


they will only be here for three days, it can not make much 
difference. What is it, Bowker? My father.^ — 

Mrs. Russell Fenton got up very reluctantly to answer 
Sir Walter ^s summons. She gave her husband an almost 
imploring look. She wanted to do more than put the heir- 
ess on her guard against these young people. She wanted 
Mab, in fact, to be set against them. The idea of any un- 
toward complication happening, of the Russell family hav- 
ing it in their power to reproach her with inveigling their 
heiress into a connection with one of her own name, was 
intolerable to Alicia, all the more from the circumstances 
of her own marriage, which moved her husband so entirdy 
the other way. 

‘‘One would think,^’ said little Mab, with her shrewd 
look, “ that Aunt Gerald did not like her relations; but 
you, uncle, I think you do.^^ 

“ This is a problem which your little wits are scarcely 
able to solve unassisted, he said, “ though you make very 
good guesses, Mab. My wife is not fond of her relations 
— because they are her relations in the first place. 

“ Uncle Gerald!’*^ 

“ Such a statement is very crude and wants a great deal 
of clearing up. You never heard your aunt^s story, did 
you, Mab?^^ 

“ Story?^^ said Mab, faltering. “ I — I did not know 
that there was any story — except^ — 

Russell Fenton began to speak. “ Oh,. yes, it was this.'’^ 
And then he was infected by Mab^s embarrassment. He 
stopped, laughed, but awkwardly, even grew red, which, for 
a man of his years and experience, was inconceivable, and 
said, “ No, no; not in that way. The story is not perhaps 
what you would call a story. It concerns not anything in 
the shape of a lover, so far as I know — 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon. Uncle Gerald 
“ There is no harm done. She was not born to inherit 
all her father could leave to her, like you. There were 
brothers at first; and the heir of entail who succeeds now, 
who takes what should have been theirs, is the father of 
these two young ones. DonT you see? There is nothing 
for a good strong family repugnance like a cousin who is 
the heir of entail. 

Mabel paused a little, employing her faculties upon this 


144 


A POOR GEJ^TLEMAK. 


question, which was new to lier. Finally she delivered her 
judgment. 

Perhaps — at least I think I can understand. But the 
children haven^t done anything, have they? It is not their 
fail It ?^^ 

It is nobody’s fault, as is the case with so many of the 
worst complications of life. And this is something a little 
worse scill than the heir of entail. It is the heir whom you 
are buying out, whom you are persuading to part with his 
rights. Well, perhaps they are a bad kind of rights. 1 
prefer not to give an opinion. To bind up a property for 
generations so that it shall descend only in a certain w^aj 
may be wrong; neither you nor I are capable of clearing up 
such high questions, Mab. It is good for the family, but 
bad for the individual, as ‘ Nature, red in tooth and claw,’ 
is, according to the laureate. But Mab, my little Mab, 
this boy Walter is the one that is to be done out of it. 
Don’t you see? It is quite fair between Alicia and his fa- 
ther, but the boy has no voice, and he is done out of it., I 
think it is rather hard upon the boy. ” 

There was nothing said about a boy,” said little Mab, 
demurely. I only heard of a girl. ” 

That was because you are not supposed to take any in- 
terest in boys,” said her uncle, with a laugh; not such a 
boy either in your eyes — over twenty, poor fellow, and no 
doubt having thought of the time when he should be the 
heir. He will be Sir Walter Pen ton in his turn, if he lives, 
but otherwise he is out of it. I, who never was in it, wdio 
am only a spectator, so to speak, I feel very much for 
young Wat.” 

Poor boy!” said Mab, under her breath. By effect of 
nature she took, as was to be expected, her uncle’s view. 
Perhaps he ought not to have thus sacrificed his wife and 
her cause. But he had a motive, this man devoid of all 
sense of propriety — a bad, dreadful, motive such as any 
correcter judgment would have condemned. He w’^anted 
to interest the heiress in a penniless, prospectless young 
man. Could anything be more wicked and dreadful? He 
wanted to surround young AValter Penton with a halo of 
romance in Mabel’s eyes, to call forth in his favor that 
charm of the unfortunate, that natural desire of the very 
young to compensate a sufferer, the very sentiments wdiich 
he ought to have exorcised had they come by themselves 


A POOR GEisTLEMAK. 145 

into being. His eyes lighted up when this breath of pity 
came from Mab^s lips. A humorous sense of the balance 
in favor of the race of Peiiton which he thus mean t to cre- 
ate, diminishing so far his own obligations, tickled his im- 
agination. He wouhl have liked to have some one to laugh 
with over this good joke. Perhaps even underneath the en- 
joyment there was something which was not so enjoyable, 
a sense of the worthlessness of wealth, and that poverty was 
by no means such a drawback as people thought. But 
that was altogether private, unopened in his own soul; and 
he had not even any one who could appreciate the joke 
which was on the surface, and the pleasure he felt in rais- 
ing rebellions in little Mab^s mind, in prepossessing her in 
Wat^s favor, in thwarting Alicia. He would not have 
thwarted her in anything else; he had the greatest respect 
for his wife, and it wanted only different circumstances, a 
change of position, to have made him the husband of hus- 
bands. But to thwart her on this point was delightful to 
him. He had set his heart uj)on it. It would be turning 
the tables also on his own people, which was agreeable too. 

“ Yes,^^ he said, more seriously. Poor boy! all the 
more that he will not know how little, in reality, he loses 
by the bargain that is being made over his head. ^ * 

‘‘ What do you mean, Uncle Gerald? I thought you said 
you were so sorry for him — that he was losing so much.'^^ 

“ More in idea than in fact — much, everything in imagi- 
nation, this house — which he calls, no doubt, the house of 
his fathers. 

Mab looked round on the stately drawing-room which 
was full of a hundred beautiful things, a long room with a 
row of windows looking out over the wide landscape, di- 
vided and kept in proportion by pillars supporting a roof 
which, it had been the pride of a previous generation to tell, 
was painted by an Italian artist in the best taste of his cent- 
ury. ‘‘But isn^t it the house of his fathers?^^ she said. 

“ I suppose so, for as much as that is worth. 

“Oh, Uncle Gerald! although we had always very nice 
houses, papa never thought there was anything equal to — 
“Yes, I know,^^ he said, hurriedly, and paused a mo- 
ment to remember. He went on by and by, with a voice 
slightly broken. “ We were all brought up there from our 
childhood. Even that, Mab, is more in appearance than in 


146 A POOR GEKTLEMAK. 

reality. A man may get very little satisfaction even out 
of the place where he was born. 

Mab regarded him closely with her shrewd eyes. They 
were not beautiful eyes, they were rather small, but very 
blue, with a frosty keenness in them; and they saw a great 
deal. You don^t take a very bright view of t hin gs in 
general, she said. 

Upon which he laughed and told her that he was an old 
grumbler, and not to be listened to. Suppose I was to 
tell you that a ball every night (or half a dozen of them) 
would not make you perfectly happy, and that even your 
first season might bore you — 

Uncle Gerald, I have always heard that you were very 
fond of society. Did your first season bore you?’"’ she 
asked. 

ISiot at all, not half enough, and — I am not sure that 
it would now, which is a confession to make at my age. 
Hush! not a word about that. I wish you to be kind to 
the young Fentons, remember, that is all. The little girl 
will be shy and the poor boy may be morose, I shouldn't 
wonder. 

But you have taken them under your protection, the 
girl said, looking at him fixedly. What could they have 
better than that? as if it mattered about meP^ 

Mr. Eussell Fenton shook his head, but he said nothing 
more. He went out of the room shortly after, when his 
wife came back. He was not a man to allow for a moment 
that there was anything in his position he did not like, or 
that his protection would not be effectual in his own, nay, 
in his wife’s, or rather in his wife’s father’s house. But as 
he went out with his hands in his pockets, and the remains 
of a philosophical • shrug keeping his shoulders rather 
nearer his ears than usual, he could not help being aware 
that it was so. It was a curious fact enough, and he would 
have been as well pleased that little Mab had not divined 
it; but still it was all in the day’s work. He had known 
what the disadvantages would be when he accepted the po- 
sition of Frince Consort, as he said to himself often. On 
the whole it was a position not without its alleviations, but 
(like most others in this world) it had to be taken with all 
its drawbacks, without any discussion, and still more with- 
out any complaint. There was no one who had not some- 
thing to bear, some in one way, some in another, his own 


A POOR GENTLEMAIT. 


147 


perhaps not by a long way the worst. And then with a 
sort of grim amusement he began to wonder how, if his lit- 
tle plan should come to anything, young Wat would adapt 
himself to it. Young Wat, a foolish b^oy, mourning over 
his loss of this big house with all its French finery, its Re- 
naissance front, its drawing-room roof by Sugero (this was 
liis little joke upon the great Italian decorators name), its 
water-works all out of order, what a thing it would be for 
him "should he marry tlie Russell heiress with all her money- 
bags. And afterward how would he agree with it? Rus- 
sell Pen ton was very loyal, but yet he felt that were he 
Wat, in all the freedom of opening life, with the whole 
world before him, he would neither bind a great shell like 
Penton upon his shoulders nor himself to a crown matri- 
monial. If the boy but knew what it was to be free! if he 
could realize the happiness of going where he would and 
doing what he pleased! To be sure he would probably have 
to work for that freedom, and he had not himself at any 
period of his career been a man who understood work. It 
was a thing he had no genius for. To take up the labors 
of a profession was more entirely out of the traditions and 
capabilities of his soul than the role which he had adopted. 
He was quite aware of this, and, knowing it, was very will- 
ing to promote Wat^s interest in the same way whicn had, 
as people say, made his own fortune — judging Wat to have 
been in all likelihood spoiled for other kinds of advance- 
ment like himself. He had become even eager about this, 
determined that AVat should have his chance with the best, 
and that the Pentons should thus be even with the RusselJs, 
each family contributing a princess royal and each a fortu- 
nate consort; but in the midst of his benevolent scheme, 
of which his wife so entirely disapproved, he reserved to 
himself this subject of humorous curiosity — how Walter 
would take to the place, in which he was himself so loyal 
and patient, but yet never without a consciousness of all 
there was to bear and to do. 

Mab, who was so shrewd, with all her wits about her, 
questioned Alicia closely when they were alone together. 
She knew already that the visitors were not much in the 
good books of the mistress of the house; but .that she was a 
little ashamed of the feeling and anxious to have it under- 
stood that there was no reason for it. ‘‘I will not conceal 
from yoa/’ Mrs. Russell Penton repeated, that I did not 


148 


A POOK GEJS'TLEMAK. 


wish you to meet them: not from anything wrong in them 
— the girl is a nice gentle little thing, I have no doubt; and 
the boy — I know no harm of the boy; but I should have 
preferred that you had not met them here. 

‘‘ Why, Aunt Gerald? do tell me why?^^ 

But this was what Mrs. Penton could not or else would 
not do. She said, Because they are not in our sphere. 
They are very nice, I donT doubt. They are, of course, 
just the same race as myself, so it is not for that; but you 
that have been brought up in the lap of luxury, and this 
girl, who probably has had»the life of a nursery-maid (for 
the children are endless), how could you have anything to 
say to each other? There is too great a difference. This 
is what I always felt.^^ 

And the boy,^^ said Mab, in a little voice which was 
somewhat hypocritical, is not he any better? Is he quite 
a common boyr^^ 

The boy is not worth considering,^’ said Mrs. Kussell 
Penton. ‘‘ He is a hobbledehoy, neither boy nor man, 
donT you know? I doiiT suppose he has had more educa- 
tion than his sister, and I donT think he will amuse at all. 
But they are only coming for three days, and I hope you 
will not mind for that short time.^^ 

‘‘ Oh, I shall not mind,^^ said Mab, I like seeing peo- 
ple of all kinds. And thus the conversation dropped. But 
it need not be said that all this was the very best introduc- 
tion possible of the two young Pentons to the notice of the 
little heiress. She did not indeed resolve to make to Wat 
an offer of her hand and fortune. But the thought of the 
heir who was an heir no longer, and of how the mere fact 
of being out of it,^^ while still so profoundly concerned, 
must work upon the mind, and all the traditional miseries 
of the poor gentleman took possession of her imagination. 
And fancy took the side of the unfortunate, as a young 
fancy always does. Accordingly, when the poor old broken- 
down fly drove up, and the portmanteaus were taken down, 
and the two timid young people stepped out of the moldy 
old carriage, Mab, though she saw the ludicrous features of 
the scene, felt not the least desire to laugh. She looked at 
them keenly, standing by, acting as audience to this little 
drama, and saw Aliyas anxious look at her brother as she 
passed into the house, and Walter^s keen consciousness of 
the footman ^s scorn and Mrs. Penton^s toleration. He did 


A POOR GENTLEMAK. 


149 


not notice herself, and evidently thought her a person of 
no importance, which for the moment piqued Mab. But' 
when he paused to let her, a little nobody, as he thought, 
pass before him, all her romantic sympathies came back to 
her mind. And so it came to pass that it was not Ally who 
was the most excited of the young persons thus brought to- 
gether in what seemed an accidental way; nor, perhaps, 
could their hearts have been seen, was it she who was the 
most likely to have met her fate. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

RECKONING WITHOUT THEIR HOST. 

Mrs. Russell Pekton^ was not without her share of the 
general embarrassment. There was never any quarrel in 
the stately, well-regulated house. An angry look, a hot 
word, were things unknown. But still she knew very well 
when her husband was not in accord with her. His smile 
•was quite enough. Matters had gone very far indeed before 
he whistled, but sometimes things did even go so far as 
that. This time there was no such climax. His lips had 
never even formed themselves into the shape of a whistle: 
and in his countenance there was no suspicion of a sarcastic 
meaning. But she knew that his thoughts were not as her 
thoughts. She knew even, which was a rare thing, that he 
was against her, that he meant to act more or less in a con- 
trary sense. The young people whom she had invited 
against her will, whom she meant to be — not unkind to, 
that was not in her nature, but to treat at least no better 
than was necessary, he meant to take up and show the 
greatest attention to. She was aware of this and it troubled 
her. How was it possible that it should not trouble her? 

It was an accusation, nay, more, a verdict delivered against , 
herself. And she saw even that little Mab was of the same 
way of thinking, that she was interested in the new-comers, 
that her questions had a meaning, and that even that little 
thing was critical of her attitude, and blamed her, actually 
blamed her, though of course she did not venture to say 
anything. This made Alicia Penton angry and sore within 
herself; and there was something still more disagreeable 
which lent a sting to all the rest; and that was that she was 


150 


A POOH GEli*TLEMATSr. 


her own worse critic, and felt herself poor and small and 
petty, and acting an ignoble part. 

Blit there was yet a deeper depth to which she never had 
expected to descend. Sir Walter in his great age changed 
his habits for nobody.- He was never seen in the drawing- 
room except on rare occasions for an hour after dinner, 
when he felt better than usual. He thought the library the 
most cheerful as well as the warmest room in the house, 
and when visitors came it was expected that they should 
pay their respects to him there. Sir Walter had been a lit- 
tle restless on the day the young Pentons arrived. It had 
not seemed to Alicia that they were importai^t enough to 
be presented to her father in a solemn interview. There 
is no reason why you should trouble about them,^^ she said. 

You will see them at dinner, that will be soon enough.-'^ 
And the old gentleman had made no particular reply. 
Therefore when they arrived, as has been related, Mrs. Pen- 
ton led them upstairs to the drawing-room and gave them 
tea. This room was very light, very bright, with its long 
range of large ^vindows, of which the great breadth of the 
landscape below seemed to form a part, and the pillars, 
which divided it into a sort of nave and aisles gave occa- 
sion for many little separate centers for conversation and 
the intercourse of congenial groups in a large company. 
Ally and Walter entered the room with dazzled eyes. It 
was to them as a dwelling of the gods. Had this visit been 
paid only a few weeks before they would have secretly taken 
possession, imagining how here and here each should have 
their special corner. The effect it produced on Walter now, 
as he looked round, too proud to show that it was new to 
him, too intent upon keeping all trace of anger out of his 
countenance to be otherwise than preternaturally grave, 
and on Ally, regarding its grandeur with an awe that was 
beyond words, was very different, but in both cases it was 
very profound. Ally thought with a movement of mingled 
regret and thankfulness how right mother was! What 
could we have done, she said to herself, in this great room? 
It would have been delightful indeed for the children, who 
on wet days would never have wanted to go out with such 
a place to play in. But then how could any one have had 
the heart to give this up to the children? She could not 
talk to Mrs. Penton, who maintained a little formal con- 
versation, her mind was so full of this thought. It was 


A POOR GEKTLEMAJiT. 


151 


beautiful. It was a magnificent room. It was wonderful 
to think that it might have belonged to its. But mother 
was right — oh^ how right mother was! What could we 
have done with it? How could we even have furnished it? 
Ally said to herself; but she knew that Wat was annoyed 
when she allowed herself to say, Wliat a lovely room!^^ 
‘‘It is a very handsome room. I donH think there is 
anything like it in the county/^ said Mrs. Eussell Penton. 
“ I ought not perhaps to say so, for we have done a great 
deal to it ourselves. But I may allow that it is very perfect. 
You have never seen it before ?^^ 

“ The view is fine,^" said Wat, going to the window be- 
fore his sister could answer; “ it is so extensive that it 
makes any room look small. He was so much out of 
temper and out of heart that he could not help making an 
attempt to “ take this serene great lady “ down.^'’ 

She smiled in her dignified way, which made the young 
critic feel very small. “We seldom hear any fault found 
with its size,^^ she said. 

And then, to the astonishment of Walter, the little per- 
son, whom he had allowed of his grace to pass in before 
him, came into the room, and took her place and addressed 
the great lady in the most familiar terms. “ Aunt Gerald, 
she said, “ we are all a kind of cousins, don^t you think? 
We must be a kind of cousins, though we never saw each 
other before, for you are aunt to them and you are aunt to 
me, so of course we are friends by nature;’^ and with that 
she put out her hand not only to Ally, whose face bright- 
ened all over at this cordial greeting, but ti^ Wat, who stood 
hanging over them like a cloud, not knowing what to say. 

“ You are mistaken, Mab,^^ said Mrs. Eussell Penton; 
“ I am not aunt but cousin to — to — she did not know 
what to call them — “ to my young relations, she said at 
last. 

“ That comes exactly to the same thing — an old cousin 
is always aunt/^ said Mab, settling herself on her seat like 
a little pigeon. She was very plump, pink and white, with 
very keen little blue eyes, not at all unlike a doll. There 
was nothing imposing in her appearance. “I am Mab,^^ 
she said, “ and are you Alicia, like Aunt Gerald? Do all 
your brothers and sisters call you so? It is such a long 
name. I have neither brothers nor sisters. 

“ Oh, what a pity,^^ said gentle Ally, who had bright- 


152 


A POOR GEKTLEMAK. 


ened as soon as this new companion came in with all the 
freemasonry of youth. 

Do ynu think so? but then they say it is very good in 
another way. I have nobody to be fond of me though, no- 
body to bully me. Big brothers bully you dreadfully, doii^t 
they?^^ She cast a look at Walter, inviting him to ap- 
proach. She was not shy, and he was standing about, not 
knowing what to do with himself. Walter would have 
been awkward in any circumstances, having no acquaint- 
ance with strange ladies or habit of attending them at tea. 
He drew a step nearer indeed, but her advances did not put 
him at his ease; for had he not taken her for a ladyVmaid? 
though this she did not know. 

Mrs. Russell Fenton left them thus to make acquaint- 
ance, as Mab said, but not willingly. She had to obey a 
summons from Sir Walter. Sir Walter had been a great 
deal more restless than usual for the last day or two. There 
was nothing the matter with him, he said himself, and the 
doctor said he was quite well, there was not the slightest 
reason for any uneasiness; but yet he was restless — con- 
stantly sending for Alicia when she was not with him, 
changing his position, finding fault with his newspapers, 
and that all the little paraphernalia he loved was not suf- 
ficiently at hand. Mrs. Russell Fenton was always ready 
when her father wanted her. She would have let nothing, 
not the most exalted visitor, stand between her and her 
father, and though she was by no means desirous of leav- 
ing these young people together, yet .she got up and left 
them without a word. It was, however, a little too much 
for her when Sir Walter exclaimed almost before she got 
into the room, Where are those children? I suppose they 
have come, Alicia. Why are you hiding them away from 
me?^^ 

The children! — what children? Father, I donT know 
what you mean.-’ ^ 

What children are there to interest me now, except the 
one set?^^ said Sir Walter, peevishly. Edward ^s children 
of course I mean.” 

Edwards's children!^'’ 

Am I growing stupid, or what is the matter with you, 
Alicia? I douT generally have to repeat the same thing a 
dozen times over, Naturally it is Edward’s son I want. A 


A POOR GEKTLEMAK. 153 

man can scarcely help feeling a certain interest in the boy 
who is his heir/^ 

“ I am afraid I am very stupid, father. I thought we 
had settled — 

“ Yes, yes, yes,^^ said the old man: ‘Mt is all settled 
just as you liked, I know; but all the same the boy is my 
heir. 

Mrs. Eussell Penton made no reply. Sir Walter was 
old enough to be allowed to say what ho would without con- 
tradiction; but the statement altogether was extremely 
galling to her. “Settled just as you liked. It was 
not as she liked but as he liked. It was he who had 
moved in it, though it was for her benefit. Though she 
could not deny that the desire of her life was to possess 
Penton, to remain in her home, yet she was proudly con- 
scious that she would have taken no step in the matter, 
done nothing, of her own accord. It was he who had set- 
tled it; and now he turned upon her, and asked for the boy 
who was his heir! Everybody was hard upon Alicia at this 
moment of fate. They all seemed to hav^e united against 
her — her husband, the little girl even whom she had wished 
to defend from fortune-hunters — and now her father him- 
self! If she had been twenty instead of fifty she could not 
have felt this universal abandonment more. But the prac- 
tice of so many years was strong upon her. She would not 
oppose or make any objections to what he wished, though 
it was of the last repugnance to herself. 

“ I should have liked, said the old man, “ to see Ed- 
ward too; when one has advanced so far as I have on the 
path of life, Alicia, likes and dislikes die away — and prej- 
udices. I may have been too subject to prejudice. Ed- 
ward never was very much to calculate upon. He had no 
character; he never could hold his own; but there was 
very little harm in him, as little harm as good you will 
perhaps say. Bring me the boy. He will be the same as 
I, Sir Walter Penton, when his turn comes, and it will not 
be long before his turn comes. Edward will never last to be 
an old man like me. He hasn’t got it in him; he hasiiT 
stuff enough. The young one will be Sir Walter — Sir Walter 
Penton, the old name. The tenth, isn^t it — Walter the tenth 
— if we were to count as some of the foreign houses do?” 

‘‘ Oh, father, don’t!” cried Alicia. To think he could 
talk, almost jest, about another Walter! 


154 


A POOR GEKTLEMAK. 


He looked up at her quickly, as if out of a little gather- 
ing confusion, seeing for the moment what she meant. 

Eh! well, we must not always dwell on one subject — 
must not dwell upon it. Let me see the boy.^^ 

Mrs. Russell Peiiton rang the bell and gave a message, 
out of which it was almost impossible to keep an angry ring 
of impatience. Tell the young gentleman who is in the 
drawing-room, he who arrived half an hour ago — you under- 
stand — that Sir Walter would like to see him. Show him 
the way.^'’ 

‘‘Why donH you speak of him by his name, Alicia? 
Young Mr. Penton, Mr. Walter Penton, my successor, you 
know, Bowker, that is to be. Say I seldom leave my room, 
and that I should be pleased to see him here. My dear,^^ 
he went on, “the servants always act upon the cue you 
give them, and they ought to be very respectful to the ris- 
ing sun, you know. It is bad policy to set them out of 
fajor with the rising sun. 

Alicia’s heart was too full for speech. She kept behind 
her father’s chair, arranging one or two little things which 
required no arrangement, keeping command over herself 
by a strong effort. A little more, she felt, and she would 
no longer be able to do this. That even the servants 
should have such a suggestion made to them, that Edward’s 
boy was the heir! Had her father departed from the reso- 
lution which was, she declared to herself passionately, his 
own resolution, not suggested by her? Had he forgotten? 
Was this some wavering of the mind which might invali- 
date all future acts of his? She felt on the edge of an out- 
break of feeling such as had rarely occurred in her reserved 
and dignified life, and at the same time she felt herself 
turned to stone. The old man went on talking, more than 
usual, more cheerfully than usual, as if something exhila- 
rating and pleasant was about to happen, but she paid little 
attention to what he said. She stood behind, full of a new 
and anxious interest, when the door opened and Wat, 
timid, but on his guard, not knowing what might be want- 
ed with him, half defiant, and yet more impressed and 
awed than he liked to show, came into the room. Mrs. 
Russell Penton gave him no aid. She said, “ This is Ed- 
ward’s son, father.” It annoyed her to name him by his 
name, though there was no doubt that he had a right to it, 
as good a riglit as any one. She could not form her lips to 


A POOK GENTLEJkUN. 


155 


say Walter Peuton. But what she failed in Sir Walter 
made up._ He half rose from his chair, which was a thing 
he rarely did, and held out both his hands. Ah, Walter! 
I’m glad to see you, very glad to see you,^^ he said. He 
took the youth^s hands in those large, soft, aged qnes of 
his, and drew him close and looked at him, as he might 
have looked at a grandson: and there was enough resem- 
blance between them to justify the suggestion. So this is 
Walter, he went on, J^m very glad to see you, my boy. 
Youhe the last of the old stock — no, not the last either, for 
I hear there’s plenty of you, boys and girls, Alicia — the 
old man’s voice trembled a little, tears came into his eyes, 
as they do so easily at his age — ‘‘ Alicia, don’t you think he 
has a look of — of — another Walter? About the eyes — and 
his mouth? He is a true Penton. My dear, I’m very sorry 
if I’ve vexed 3^ou. I — I like to see it. I could think he had 
lived and done well and left us a son to come after him, 
my poor boy!” 

And old Sir Walter for a moment broke down, and lifted 
up his voice and wept, running the little wail of irrepressi- 
ble emotion into a cough to veil it, and swinging Wat’s 
hand back and forward in his own. Alicia stood as long as 
she could behind him, holding herself down. But when 
her father’s voice broke, and he called her attention to that 
resemblance, she could hear it no longer. She walked 
away out of the room without a word. Had she not seen 
it — that resemblance? and it was an offense to her, a bitter 
injury. He had neither lived nor done well, that other 
Walter, the brother of her love and of her pride. He had 
crushed her heart under his feet, beaten down her pride, 
torn her being asunder; and now to have it pointed out to 
her that this insignificant boy, who was not even to be the 
heir, whose birthright was being sold over his head, that he 
was a true Penton and like her brother! She could bear it 
no longer. Not even the recollection that this emotion 
might injure her father, that he wanted care to soothe him, 
sufficed to make her capable of restraining the passion 
which had seized possession of her. She went away quick- 
ly, silent, saying nothing. It was more than she could bear. 

In the corridor she met her husband, between whom and 
her there was, she was conscious, a certain mist, also on 
account of this boy. Had all been as usual in other ways 
she would have passed him by with a sense in her heart of a 


156 A PpOB GEKTLEMAN. 

certain separation and injury: but a woman must have 
some one to claim support fromy and after all he was her 
husbandy bound to stand by her, whatever questions might 
arise between them. She went up to him with an instinct- 
ive feeling of having a right to his sympathy in any case, 
even if he should disapprove, and put her hand within liis 
arm with a hasty appealing movement, quite unusual with 
her. No man was more easily affected than Russell Penton 
by such an appeal. He put his hand upon hers, and looked 
at her tenderly. ‘‘ What is it, my dear:’^ he said. 

Nothing, Gerald; except that I want to lean upon you 
for a moment because I have more than I can bear; though 
you disapprove of me,^^ she said. 

He held her close to him, full of pity and. tenderness. 
‘‘ Lean, Alicia, whether I approve or disapprove and he 
added, I know that all this is hard upon you.^^ He sym- 
pathized With her at least, if not with the tenor of her 
thoughts. 

She made on further explanation, nor did he ask for it. 
After a moment she said, “ Gerald, do you know whether 
a sudden change of mind, abandoning one way of thinking 
for another, is supposed to be a bad sign— -of health, 1 
inean?^^ 

He paused a moment and looked at her, with an evident 
question as to whether it was she who had changed her 
mind. But that look was enough to show that, though she 
was suffering she was firm as ever, and a glance she gave 
toward the closed door of the library enlightened him. I 
should not think it was a very good sign — of health, ^Mie 
said. 

It shows a weakening — it shows a relaxation of the 
fiber — a — that is what I think. And so complete a change! 
Gerald, my father shall do nothing he does not wish to do 
for me. 

I never supposed you would wish that, my dear. What 
is it? Don’t form too hasty a judgment. Has he said that 
he does not want to do anything that has been spoken of 
between your” 

No, he has spoken of nothing. He has got Edward 
Penton’s boy with him, and he is quite affectionate, talk- 
ing of a resemblance — ” 

Alicia, is it Penton you are thinking so much of?” 

No, no,” she cried, leaning upon his shoulder, burat- 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


157 


ing at last into sadden, long-repressed tears. No, no! 
It is my brother, my brother! mij Walter! He who should 
have been, who ought to have been — Gerald, it may be 
wrong, but I can^t bear it, I can’t bear it. He talks of a 
resemblance — ” 

Alicia, I see it too. I thought it would soften your 
heart.” 

‘‘ Oh!” she cried, how little you knowj” and, flinging 
herself from him, with a cry of mortification and disap- 
pointment, she flew into her own room and closed the door. 

Russell Penton stood looking after her with a troubled 
countenance, and then he began to walk slowly up and 
down the corridor. He did not approve, and perhaj^s, as 
she said in her passion, did not understand this strange re- 
vulsion of all gentle sentiments. But it went to his heart 
to leave her to herself in a moment of pain, even though 
the pain was of her own inflicting. He did not follow or 
attempt to console her. Slie was not a girl to be soothed 
and persuaded out of this outburst of passionate feeling. 
He respected her individuality, her age, her power to bear 
her own burdens; but because his heart was very tender, 
though he did not disturb Alicia, he walked up and down, 
waiting till she should return to him, outside that closed door. 


CHAPTER XX. 

SIR WALTER AND HIS HEIR. 

There was a ball at Penton that evening. 

Nothing was more unusual than a ball at Penton. The 
family festivities were usually of the gravest kind. Solemn 
dinner-parties, duties of society, collections of people who 
had to be asked, county potentates, with whom Alicia and 
her husband had dined, and who had to be repaid. Noth- 
ing under fifty, unless it might be by chance now and then 
a newly married couple added in the natural progress of 
events to the circle of the best people, ever appeared at 
that luxurious but somewhat heavy table. Mr. Russell 
Penton chafed, but endured, and talked politics with the 
squires, and did his best to relieve the ponderous propriety 
of their wives. He was good at making the best of things; 
and when he could do nothing more he put on a brave face 
and supported it. But now, for once in a way, youth was 


158 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


paramount. The young people from Penton Hook, who 
had little acquaintance with the other young people of all 
the county families who were invited, had not so much as 
heard of what was in store for them; and Ally reflected, 
when she did hear, that it was something like an inspira- 
tion which had induced her mother to provide her with 
that second evening dress, which was quite suitable for a 
first ball. It was very simple, very white, fit for her age, 
her slim figure, and youthful aspect. But it was not for 
Ally that the ball was given. I believe it is my ball,^^ 
Mab had told her. ‘‘It is my first visit to Penton since I 
was a child, and now that I am out Aunt Alicia thinks 
that something has to be done for me. Are you ‘out^? 
but you must be, of course, or you would not have been 
asked for to-day. 

“I douT know whether I am out or not,^’ said Ally, 
with a blush; “but I don^t think mother, if she knew, 
would have any objection. I am eighteen. I have never 
been at a ball before. Perhaps I may not dance in the 
right way."^^ 

“Oh, nonsense,^" said Mab, “ whatever way you dance 
you have only to stick to it and say that is the right way.^^ 

The two girls were alone, for Walter had just been mys- 
teriously called out of the room. And though Ally’s 
thoughts followed her brother with anxiety, wondering 
what could be wanted with him, yet the novelty of the 
scene and the companionship of a girl of her own age so 
warmed her heart, that she forgot the precautions and cares 
which had been so impressed upon her, and began to talk 
and to act by natural impulse without thought. 

“ I should never have the courage to do that,” she said; 
“I have never even seen people dancing. We had a few 
lessons when we were children, and sometimes we try with 
W at, just to see, if we ever had a chance, how we could get 
on. Anne plays and I have a turn, or else Anne has a 
turn and I pla3^ ” 

“ Is Anne your only sister?” 

“ Oh, no,” cried AllV;, with a laugh at the impossibility 
of such a suggestion; “there are two in the nursery. We 
are two boys and two girls, grown up; and the little ones 
are just the same, two and two.” 

“ How unfair things are in this world,” said Mab; “ to 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 159 

think there should be so many of you and only one of 
me!^^ 

‘‘It is strange/^ said Ally; “but not perhaps unfair: 
for when there is only one your father and mother must 
seem so much nearer to you — ^you must feel that they be- 
long altogether to 

“ Perhaps. Mamma died when I was born, so I never 
knew her at all. Papa is dead too. DoiPt let us talk of 
that. I never think of things that are disagreeable,^^ said 
Mab, “ what is the use? It can^t do you any good, it only 
makes you worse thinking. Tell me about to-night. Who 
will be here? are they nice? are they good dancers? Tell 
me which is the best dancer about, that I may ask Uncle 
Gerald to introduce him to me.'’^ 

“ I know nobody, said Ally. 

“Nobody! though you have lived here all your life! 
Oh, you little envious thing! You want to keep them all 
to yourself; you wonT tell me! Very well. I have no 
doubt your brother dances well; he has the figure for it. I 
shall dance with him all the night. 

“ Oh, no; that would be too much. But I hope you loill 
dance with him to give him a little confidence. Indeed, 
what I say is quite true. We don^t know anybody; we 
have been brought up so — quietly. We never were here 
before. ” 

“ Oh!^'^ Mab said. She was an inquiring young woman, 
and she had not believed what she had heard. She had 
made very light of Mrs. Kussell Penton’s description of her 
relations as “ not in our sphere. As Ally spoke, how- 
ever, Mab"s eyes opened wider; she began to realize the real 
position. The misfortunes of the young Pentons had gone 
further than she had believed; they were poor relations in 
the conventional sense of the word, people to be thrust into 
a corner, to be allowed to shift for themselves. But not if 
they have some one to look after them, Mab said to her- 
self. She took up their cause with heat and fury. “You 
shall soon know everybody, she cried; “Uncle Gerald 
will see to that, and so shall I. It then occurred to her 
that Ally might resent this as an offer of patronage, and 
she added, hastily, “Promise to introduce all your good 
partners to me, and I will introduce all mine to you. Is 
that settled? Oh, then between us we shall soon find out 
which are the best.^^ 


160 


A POOR GEKTLEMAK. 


How kind she was! To be sure, Cousin Alicia was not 
very kind; there was nothing effusive about her. 'No doubt 
she must mean to be agreeable, or why should she have 
asked them? though her manner was not very cordial. 
But as for Mab — who insisted that she was to be called 
Mab, and not Miss Russell — she was more “ nice than 
anything that Ally could have imagined j^ossible. She was 
like a new sister, she was like one of ourselves. So Ally 
declared with warmth to Wat, who knocked at the door of 
her room just as she was beginning to dress for dinner, with 
a face full of importance and gravity. He was quite in- 
different as to Mab, but he told her of Sir Walter with a 
sort of enthusiasm. He said I must not forget that I was 
his heir, and that he would like to make a man of me. 
What do you think he could mean. Ally, by saying that I 
was his heir, after all?^^ 

Ally could not tell; how was it possible that she should 
tell, as she had not heard or seen the interview? And be- 
sides, she was not the clever one to be able to divine what 
people meant. She threw, however, a*" little light on the 
subject by suggesting that perhaps he meant the title. 

For you must be heir to the title, Wat,^^ she said; no- 
body can take that from you.'’^ WaFs countenance fell at 
this, for he did not like to think tliat it was merely the 
baronetcy Sir Walter meant when he called him his heir. 
However, there was not very much time to talk. W^alter 
had to hurry to his room to get ready, and Ally to finish 
dressing her hair and to put on her dress, with a curious 
feeling of strangeness which took away her pleasure in it. 
Of course, you really could see yourself better in the long, 
large glass than in the little ones at the Hook, but an ad- 
miring audience of mother and sisters are more exhilarating 
to dress to than the noblest mirror. And Ally felt sad and 
excited — not excited as a girl generally does before her first 
ball, but filled with all manner of indefinite alarms. There 
was nothing to be alarmed about. Cousin Alicia, however 
cold she might seem, would not suffer, after all, her own 
relations to be neglected. And then there was Mab. The 
girl felt the confused prospect before her of pleasure — 
which she was not sure would be pleasure, or anything but 
a disguised pain — to grow brighter and more natural when 
she thought of Mab. And that compact about the part- 
ners. Ally wondered whether she would get any partners, 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 101 

or ii they would all overlook her in her corner, a little girl 
whom nobody knew. 

And then came dinner, an agitating but brilliant cere- 
monial, with a confusing brightness of lights and flowers 
and ferns, and everything so strange, and the whole dis- 
turbed by an underlying dread of doing something wrong. 
Sir Walter at the head of the table, a strange image of age 
and tremulous state, looked to Ally like an old sage in a 
picture, or an old magician, one in whose very look there 
were strange powers. She scarcely raised her eyes when 
she was presented to him, but courtesied to the ground as 
if he had been a king, and did not feel at all sure that the 
look he gave her might not work some miraculous change 
in her. But Sir Walter did not take much notice of Ally, 
his attention was all given to Wat,^whom he desired to 
have near him, and at whom he looked with that pleasure 
near to tears which betrays the weakness of old age. When 
dinner was over the old man would not have Knssell Pen- 
ton’s arm, nor would he let his servant help him. He 
signed to Wat, to tli« astonishment of all, and shuffled into 
the ball-room, where half of the county were assembled, 
leaning on the arm of the youth, who was no less astonished 
than everybody else. Sir Walter was very tali, taller than 
W at, and he was heavy, and leaned his full weight upon 
the slight boy of twenty, who required all his strength to 
keep steady and give the necessary support. Mrs. Bussell 
Pen ton, who was already in the ball-room receiving her 
guests, grew pale like clay when she saw this group ap- 
proach. Father, let me take you to your seat,” she 
said, hurriedly, neglecting a family newly arrived too, who 
were w^aiting for Tier greeting. Xothing of the kind, 
Alicia. I’m well off to-night. I’ve got Wat, you see,” 
the old gentleman said, and walked up the whole length of 
the room, smiling and bowing, and pausing to speak to 
the most honored guests. This is young Walter,” he 
said, introducing the boy, don’t you know? My suc- 
cessor, you know,” with that old tremulous laugh which 
was half a cough, and brought the tears to his eyes. The 
people who knew the cT’cumstances — and who did not know 
the circumstances? — stared and asked each other what could 
have happened to bring about such a revolution. When 
Sir Walter had been seated at the upj)er end of his room he 
dismissed his young attendant with a caressing ta]) upon 


162 


A POOR GEITTLEMAK. 


his arm. ISTow go^ boy, and find your partner. You 
must open the ball, you know; nothing can be done till 
youVe opened the bail. Go, go, and don^t keep everybody 
waiting.^"' Poor Wat could not tell what to do when raised 
to this giddy height without any preparation, not knowing 
anybody, very doubtful about his own powers as a dance iv 
or what was the etiquette of such performances. Eussell 
Penton almost thrust Mab upon him in his pause of bewil- 
derment. And from where she stood at the door, stately 
and rigid, Alicia looked with a blank gaze upon this boy, 
this poor relation, whom her eyes had avoided, whom she 
had included almost perforce in her reluctant invitation to 
his sister, but who was thus made the principal figure in 
her entertainment. She had been reluctant to ask Ally, 
but the brother had been put in quite against her will. 
His name, his look, the resemblance which she refused to 
see, but yet could not ignore, were all intolerable to her; 
but her father^s sudden fancy for the boy, his change of 
sentiment so inconceivable, so unexplainable, struck chill to 
her heart. • 

When she was released from her duties of receiving she 
found out the doctor among the crowd of more important 
guests, and begged him to give her his opinions. 

How do you think my father looks?'’^ 

Extremely well — better than he has looked for years — 
as if he had taken a new lease, the doctor said. 

Mrs. Eussell Penton shook her head. She herself was 
very pale; her eyes shone with a strange, unusual luster. 
She said to herself that it was superstition. W^hy should 
not an old man take a passing fancy? It would pass with 
the occasion, it might mean nothing. There was no reason 
to suppose that this wonderful contradiction, this apparent 
revolution in his mind, was anything but a sudden impres- 
sion, an effect — though so different from that in herself — 
of the stirring up of old associations. She sat down beside 
her father, and did her best to subdue the state of unusual 
exhilaration in which he was. 

You must not stay longer than you feel disposed, she 
said, with her hand upon his arm. 

“ Oh, doiPt fear for me, Alicia. I am wonderfully well; 
I never felt better. Look at young Wat, with that little 
partner of his! IsnT she the little heiress? I shouldn't 
wonder if he carried off the prize, the rascal! eh, Gerald? 


A POOR GENTLEMAN-. 


163 


and very convenient too in the low state of the exchequer/^ 
the old gentleman said; and he chuckled and laughed with 
the water in his eyes, while his daughter by his side felt 
herself turning to stone. It was not, she said to herself 
passionately, for fear of his changing his mind. It was 
that a change so extraordinary looked to her anxious eyes 
like one of those mental excitements which are said to go 
before the end. 

It was Aliyas ow;a fault that she got behind backs, and 
escaped the attentions which Mr. Eussell Penton, absorbed, 
he, too, in this curious little drama, had intended to pay 
her. Ally, in the shade of larger interests, fell out of that 
importance which ought to belong to a dehitante. It was 
a great consolation to her when young Rochford suddenly 
appeared, excited and delighted, anxious to know if she 
had still a dance to give him. Poor Ally had as many 
dances as she pleased to give, and knew nobody in all this, 
bewildering brilliant assembly so well as himself. She was 
unspeakably relieved and comforted when he introduced 
her to his sisters atfd his mother, who. half out of natural 
kindness, and half because of the distinction of having a 
Miss Penton — who was a real Penton, though a poor one, 
in the great house which bore her name — under her wing, 
encouraged Ally to take refuge by her side, and talked to 
her and soothed her out of the frightened state of loneli- 
ness and abandonment which is perhaps more miserable to 
a young creature expecting pleasure in a ball-room than 
anywhere else. They got her partners among their own 
set, the guests who were, so to speak, below the salt, the 
secondary strata in the great assembly — who indeed 'were 
quite good enough for Ally— quite as good as any one, 
though without handles to their names or any prestige in 
society. Mab, when she met her new friend, stopped in- 
deed to whisper aside, Where have you picked up that 
man?^^ but Mab, too, was fully occupied with her own 
affairs. And Walter was altogether swept away from his 
sister. He made more acquaintances in the next hour or 
two than he had done for all the previous years of his life. 
If his head was a little turned, if he felt that some wonder- 
ful unthought-of merit must suddenly have come out in 
him, who could wonder? He met Ally now and then, or 
saw her dancing and happy; and, with a half -guil ty glad- 
ness, feeling that there was no necessity for him to take her 


164 


A POOR GEKTLEMAIT. 


upon his shoulders, abandoned himself to the intoxication 
of his own success. It was his first; it was totally unex- 
pected, and it was very sweet. 

The time came, however, as the time always comes* 
when all this fascination and delight came to an end. Sir 
Walter had retired hours before; and now the last linger- 
ing guest had departed, the last, carriage had rolled away, 
the lights were extinguished, the great house had fallen 
into silence and slumber after the fatigue of excitement 
and enjoyment. "Walter did not knov^iow late, or rather 
how early it was, deep in the heart of the wintery darkness, 
toward morning, when he was roused from his first sleep by 
sudden sounds in the corridor, and voices outside his door. 
A sound of other doors opening and shutting, of confyised 
cries and footsteps, made it^ evident to him that something 
unusual had occurred, as he sprung up startled and un- 
easy. The first thought that springs to the mind of every 
inexperienced adventurer in this world, that the something 
which has happened must specially aft'ect himself, made 
him think of some catastrophe at home, and made him 
clutch at his clothes and dress himself hurriedly, witli a 
certainty that he was about to be summoned. There flashed 
through W^alter^s mind with an extraordinary rapidit}', as 
if flung across his consciousness from without, the possi- 
bility that it might be his father — the thought that in that 
case it would actually be he, as old Sir Walter had said, 
who would be — The thought was guilty, barbarous, un- 
natural. It did not originate in the young man^s own con- 
fused, half-awakened mind. What is there outside. of us 
that flings such horrible realizations across our conscious- 
ness without any will of ours? He had not time to feel 
how horrible it was when he recognized Mrs. Eussell Pen- 
ton’s voice outside in hurried tones, sharp with some urgent 
necessit}^ Some one must go for Edward Penton and 
Eochford— Rochford and the papers. Who can we send, 
who will understand? Oh, Gerald, not you, not you. 
Don’t let me be alone at this moment — let all go rather 
than that.” 

If it must be done, I am the only man to do it, Alicia 
— if his last hours are to be disturbed for this. ” 

His last hours! they are disturbed already; he can not 
rest; he calls for Eochford, Eochford! It is no doing of 
mine— that you should think so of me at this moment! 


A POOR GE^TTLEMAlSr. 165 

How am I to quiet my father? But, Gerald, doii^t leave 
me— don^t you leave me?^^ she cried. 

Walter threw his door open in the excitement of his sud- 
den waking. The light flooded in his eyes, dazzling him. 

ITl go,^" he said, unable to see anything except a white 
figure and a dark one standing together in the flicker of the 
light which was blown about by the air from some open 
window. Presently Alicia Penton^s face became visible to 
him, pale, with a lace handkerchief tied over her head^ 
which changed her aspect strangely, and her eyes full of 
agitation and nervous unrest. She fell back when she saw 
him, crpng, with a sharp tone of pain, You!^^ 

I^m wide awake, said the young man. I thought 
something must have happened at home. If there ^s a 
horse or a dog-cart Ifll go. 

Sir Walter is very iU/^ said Eussell Penton. I 
hope not dying, but very ill. And you know what they 
want, to settle the matter with your father and get that 
deed executed at once. 

ITl go/^ said Wat, half sullen in the repetition, in the 
sudden perception that burst upon him once again from 
outside with all its train of ready-made thoughts— that if 
he lingered, if he delayed, it might be too late, and Penton 
would still be his — that there was no duty laid upon him 
to go at all, contrary to his interests, contrary to all his 
desires that — that — He gave a little stamp with his foot 
and repeated, doggedly, I said I’d go. I^m ready. To 
bring Kochford and the papers, to bring my father; that^s 
what IVe got to do.^^ 

‘‘ That is what Mrs. Penton does not venture to ask of 
you."" ^ . 

Oh, boy,"" cried Alicia, lifting up her hands, go, go! 
It is not for me, it is for my faBier. I don"t know what 
he means to do, but he can not rest till it is done. He 
can"t die, do you know what I mean? It is on his mind, 
and he can"t get free — for the love of Heaven go!"" 

This moment,"" Walter said. 


CHAPTER XXL 

A I G H T n R I Y E . 

Walter Penton found himself facing the penetrating- 
wind of the December morning which was in its stillness 


166 


A POOR GEOTLEMAlSr. 


and blackness the dead of night, before he had fully realized 
what was happening. A number of keen perceptions in- 
deed had flashed across his mind, yet it felt like nothing so 
much as the continuation of a dream when, enveloped in an 
atmosphere of sound, the horse^s hoofs clanging upon the 
frosty road, the wheels grinding, the harness jingling, all 
doubled in clamor by the surrounding stillness, he was 
carried along between black, half-visible hedge-rows, 'under 
dark bare trees, swaying in the wind, through shut- up 
silent villages, and the death-like slumber of the wide coun- 
try, bound hard in frost and sleep. A groom less awake 
than himself, shivering and excited, but speechless, and 
affording him no sense of human companionship, was by 
his side, driving mechanically, but at the highest speed, 
along a road which to unaccustomed eyes was invisible. 
The scene was a very strange one after the intoxicating 
dream of the evening, with all its phantasmagoria of light 
and praise, and confused delight and pride. The blackness 
before him was as heavy as the preliminary vision had been 
dazzling; the air blew keen, cutting the very breath which 
rose in white wreaths like smoke from his lips. Where was 
he rushing? carried along by a movement which was not 
his own, an unwilling agent, acting in spite of himself. Sir 
Walter ^s old head, crowned with white locks, looking upon 
him with so much genial approbation, Mrs. Eussell Pen- 
ton^s drawn and rigid countenance, the disturbed face of 
her husband, the plump simplicity of little Mab, a sort of 
floating rosy cherub among all , these older countenances, 
seemed to flit before him in the mists; the music echoed, 
the lights glowed; and then came the darkness, the ring of 
the hoofs and wlieels, the stinging freshness of the cold air, 
and all dark, motionless, silent around. He was in a 
vision still. The German poem in which the lady is carried 
off behind the black horseman, tramp, tramp across the 
land, splash, splash across the sea, seemed to ring in his 
ears through his dream. He was preternaturally awake 
and aware of everytliing, yet his eyes were in a mist of 
semi-consciousness, and all the half-visible veiled sights 
about him seemed like the vague and flying landscape, of 
uneasy fever- journeys. The cold, which half stupefied him, 
by some strange process only intensified these sensations; 
his companion and he never exchanged a word. He was 
not acquainted even with the lie of the roads, the ascents 


A POOR GEKTLEMAl^’. 


167 

and descents, or of what houses those were which looked 
through the darkness from time to time surrounded hy 
spectral trees. After awhile an overwhelming desire for 
sleep seized him. He had visions of the bed, all white and 
in order, which he had left behind; of the chair by the fire 
which he had been roused out of; of his own room at home, 
all silent, cold, waiting for him. If only he could make a 
spring out of this moving, jingling thing, out of the sting- 
ing of the air, and get into the quiet and warmth and 
sleep ! 

When the groom spoke Walter woke up again, broad 
awake from what must have been a doze. Shall we go 
to the Hook or to Mr. Rochford^’s first, sir?^-’ the man 
asked. Walter started bolt itp right, and came to himself. 
They were dashing through his own village, and a moment 
later he would have passed without seeing the white blinds 
at the windows of Crockford^s cottage which shone through 
the gloom. He waved his hand in the direction of his 
home, thinking that to give his father the benefit of a 
■warning was worth the trouble before he went on. He- 
took the reins into his own hands, knowing the steep de- 
scent toward the house, which was ticklish even in dayli^Iit, 
and this touch of practical necessity brought him to his full 
senses, and for the first time dispersed the mists. He per- 
ceived now fully what he was doing. As the horse^s steps 
sunk half stumbling down the invisible abyss of the way, 
Walter felt, with a tingling of his ears and a sinking of his 
heart, that he also was dropping from the brilliant mount 
of possibility which he had been ascending with delighted 
feet. It had seemed as if all the decisions of fate might be 
reversed, as if he were to be the arbiter of his own fortune, 
as if — And now it was his hand that was to seal his own 
fate. Such thoughts and questionings, such rebellions 
against a duty which is not to be escaped, may go on while 
one is executing that very duty without any practical effect. 
Walter pushed on all the time as well as the diflficulties of 
the path would allow. He dashed into the little domain at 
the Hook with an energy that made the still air tingle, 
feeling as if he were himself inside, and starting to the 
shock of the sudden awakening in the midst of the dark- 
ness. The groom, who had opened the gate, ran on and 
gave peal after peal to the bell, and presently the house, 
which had stood so dead and dark in the midst of the 


168 


A POOR GEKTLEMAIT. 


spectral trees, awoke with a start. One or two windows 
were opened simultaneously. “ Who is there?^^ cried Mr. 
Penton, in a bass tone, while a sudden wavering treble with 
terror in it shrieked out, Oh, it^s Wat, it^s Wat!^^ and 
Something has happened to Ally!^^ with a cry that pene- 
trated the night. 

Father,^' said Wat, nothing is the matter with either^ 
of us. Sir Walter^s very ill. I^m going to fetch Eochford 
a,nd the papers. You have to come too, to sign. Be ready 
when I come back. 

‘‘Eochford and the papers! To sign! What do you 
meanr In the middle of the night !^^ 

And here there came a white figure to the window, cry- 
ing “ Ally — are you sure, s^re you sure, Wat, alks right 
with Ally.^'’^ through the midst of the question and reply. 

“ I tell you, father, Sir Walter^s dying. Be ready, be 
at the cross-roads if you can in half an hour. It^s three 
miles, further, but this horse goes like the wind. Don^t 
stop for anything. In half an hour. It^s true; it^s not a 
dream, he shouted, turnhig round to go away. 

“Wat! dying, did you say." And a ball in the house! 
Wat! had they got the doctor? what was it? Wat!^^ 

“ I canT stay. He may be dead before we get there. 

In half an hour at the cross-roads, ^'' cried the youth, turn- 
ing the horse with dangerous abruptness: and in a minute 
or two all was still again. The darkness and silence closed 
round, and the astonished family, terrified, startled out of 
the profound quiet of their repose, blinked, dazzled at the 
newly lit candles, and said to each other wildly, “ Dying! 
perhaps before they can get there. But Ally — Ally and 
Wat are all right, thank God!^^ And soon there was a 
twinkle of lights from window to window. The servants 
got up last, being less easily awakened; but Mrs. Fenton 
had already some tea ready for her husband, and Anne, in 
a little dressing-gown, was collecting the warmest coats and 
wrappers which the family possessed, before Mr. Penton 
himself, very grave, almost tremulous, in the sudden emer- 
gency, could get ready. His fingers trembled over his but- 
tons. Sir Walter, whom he had not seen for years; the old 
man who had been as one who would never die; the kind 
uncle of old; the causeless antagonist of later years. It 
was strange beyond measure ^to Edward Penton to be thus 
sent for with such startling and tragic suddemiess in the 


A POOE GEKTLEJklAN. 


169 


middle of the night. ‘‘ What shall I do?^^ he said, wring- 
ing his hands, if he should die before — Oh, Edward, 
make haste; lose no time; a minute may do it,^^ cried his 
wife in her anxiety. They almost pushed him out, Anne 
running before to see that the gate was open, with a lantern 
to show him the way. There was no one else to carry the 
lantern, and she went with him up the steep ascent with 
the flicker of the light flaring unsteadily about the dark 
road. She was very thinly clad, with an ulster over her 
dressing-gown, and her poor little feet thrust into her boots, 
and shivered as she ran, and stumbled with the lantern, 
which was too big for her, her father being too much ab- 
sorbed in his thoughts to perceive what a burden it was. 
Anne shivered, but not altogether from cold. Her heart 
was beating high, the quick pulsations vibrating to her 
lively brain, and alarm, awe, the indefinite melancholy and 
horror of death mingling with that keen exhilaration of 
quickened living which any tremendous event brings with 
it to the young. It was a wonderful thing to be happen- 
ing, to be mixed up in, to realize so much more vividly 
than even her father did. Her very lantern and course 
along this steep and dark road in the middle of the night 
gave a thrilling consciousness to Anne of having a great 
deal to do with it, of being really an actor in the drama. 
She would not leave him till the lights of the dog-cart 
showed far off, coming on swiftly, silently, through the 
dark, before any sound could be heard. It was all wonder- 
ful; the portentous darkness, without a star; the cold, the 
silence, the consciousness of what was going on; the sense, 
which took her breath away, that 23erhaps after all the law- 
yer, with his j^apers, and her father, who liM to sign them, 
might be too late; that even now, when she turned to make 
her way, trembling a lifctle with cold and fright and nei'V- 
ous excitement. Sir Walter might be dead, and Penton be 
oursl^^ Mother would be my lady in any case; the serv- 
ants would have to be taught to call her so. And all this 
might be determined in an hour or two, perhaps before 
daylight! Anne shivered more and more, and was afraid 
of the darkness under the hedge-rows as she went home 
alone with the heavy lantern. She had a great mind to 
leave it under the hedge and run all the way home, with- 
out minding the dark; but such darkness as that was not a 
thing which a girl could make up her resolution not to mind,. 


170 


A POOR GEKTLEMAJ?-. 


AYalter had gone on from the Hook with this issue 
plainer and plainer in his mind — if he but delayed a little, 
did not press the horse, took it more easily, he might, with- 
out reproach, without harm, be late, and so after all pre- 
serve his birthright. He said to himself that if the papers 
were but there Mrs. Russell Pen ton would have them 
signed whatever might happen, if her father was in the act 
of dying she would have them signed. There was 
nothing she would not do to secure her end. Had she not 
secured himself, even himself, who was so much against 
her, whose life was more in question than any one^s, to do 
her will and serve her purpose.^ And when he could not 
resist her who could? She would get her way. She would 
make the old man^s melting, his sudden partiality, come to 
nothing; and again Walter, whose head had been turned a 
little, who had begun to feel more than ever what it would 
be to be the heir of Penton, would be replaced in the 
original obscurity of his poor relationship. And ail this 
might be changed if he but delayed a little, went softly, 
spared the horse! All the time, while these thoughts were 
going through his mind, he was pressing on with vehe- 
mence, making the animal fly through the darkness. He 
did not hesitate a moment practically, though he said all 
this to himself. What he did and what he thought seemed 
to run on in two parallel lines without deflection, without 
any effect upon each other. It was all in his hands to do 
as he pleased: no one could blame him or say anything to 
him if he ceased to press on, if he let the reins drop loose- 
ly. But it never occurred to him to do so. Then there 
was the possibility that Eochford might not be ready at 
once, that he might not be able to find the papers over 
which he had so dawdled, that he might not be ready to 
jump up as Walter had done. What need was there to 
'press him, to make the same startling summons at his door 
that had been made at the Hook, to insist on an answer? 
There seemed no need to take any active steps in order to 
upset the family arrangement, to turn everything the other 
way. All that it was necessary to do was only to let the 
reins fall on the horse’s neck, to urge him forward no more. 

They arrived thus flying at the gates of the Eochfords’ 
house, a big red-brick mansion just outside the town. 
There was a light in the coachman’s cottage which an- 
swered the purpose of a lodge, and the coachman himself 


A POOR GENTLEMiis^ 


171 


came out, half scared, half awake, to open to the pair of 
lamps that gleamed through the darkness, and the fiery 
horse from whose nostrils went up what seemed puffs of 
smoke into the frosty air. ‘‘Ac ^ome? He^ve just got 
home, and scarce a-bed yet,^^ said the man. “ Whatever 
can you want of master so early in the morning?^^ Walter 
had considered it to be night up to this moment; he recog- 
nized it as morning with a sigh of excitement. “ Mr. 
Rochford must be called immediately/^ he said, his 
thoughts tugging at him all the time, saying. Why? Why 
can^t you let him alone? Is it your iDusiness to force him 
to get up, to produce his papers, to drive half a dozen miles 
in the chill of the morning? But Walter, though he heard 
all this, took no notice. “ Let him know that I am wait- 
ing. Sir Walter Fenton is very ill. He must come at 
once/’ he said. He jumped down from the cart, and be- 
gan to pace rapidly up and down to restore the circulation 
to his half-frozen limbs, while the groom covered the horse 
with a cloth and eased the harness. There was no time to 
put the animal up, to go in-doors and wait. As Walter 
took his sharp walk up and down, the opposing force in his 
mind had a time to itself of inaction and silence, and heaped 
argument upon argument before him. What! hurry like 
this, drag every one that was wanted from their rest, dis- 
turb the whole sleeping world with the clamor of his appeal 
in order, to undo himself! Was this his duty, anyhow that 
it could be considered? Was it his duty to undo himself? 
More than ^er, now he had seen it, Fenton had become 
the hope of his life, the object of all his wishes; and was it 
in order to divest himself of the last possibility of being 
heir of Fenton, though this was what Sir Walter had called 
him, that he was here? 

The chill became keener than ever; a sharp air, blight- 
ing everything it touched, blew in his face and chilled him 
to the bone. It was the first breath of the dreary dawn- 
ing, the dismal rising of a dull day. A faint stir became 
perceptible in the house, very faint, a light flashed at a 
window, there was a far-off sound of a voice, the movement 
of some one coming down-stairs. Then a voice called out, 
“ What is it, Fenton? Is it possible I^m wanted? I canT 
believe the man. What do you want with me?^’ And 
Rochford, shivering, half dressed, with a candle in his 
hand, appeared at a side door, close to which Walter was 


172 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


performing liis march. ^^You can^t have come all this 
way for nothing/’ he cried, but it’s not an hour since I 
came home. It doesn’t seem possible. Am I wanted cer- 
tainly?” 

Now was the time. The reasonings within tore Walter 
as if they had got hold of his heart-strings. Why should 
he be so obstinate, forcing on what would be his own ruin? 
It would be all his doing, the hurrj^-scurry through the 
night, the insistance, calling up this man, who yawned and 
gazed at him with a speechless entreaty to be let off, and 
his father, who probably now was waiting for him by the 
cross-roads in the dark, chilled too to the heart. It would 
be all his own officiousness, offering himself to go, forcing 
the others. These harpies were tearing at him all the time 
he was saying aloud, his own voice sounding strange and 
far off in his ears, Sir Walter has been taken very ill; he 
wants you at once. Mrs. Russell Penton sent me. You 
are to bring all the papers, and we are to pick up my father 
on the way. ’ ’ He said all this as steadily as if there was 
'not another sentiment in his mind. What,” said Eochford, 

the papers, and your father! Come in, at least; it will 
take me some time to find them. Come in, though I fear 
there’s no fire anywhere.” 

I want no fire, only make haste,” said Walter, ^Sve 
may be too late.” Too late! yes, it was possible even now 
to be too late, but no longer likely. Now be still, oh, 
reasoning soul, keep silence, for there is no remedy — the 
thing is done, and yet it was still possible thatit might not 
be done in time. 

Eochford was a long time getting himself and his papers 
together; so long that the blackness became faintly gray, 
and objects grew slowly visible, rising noiselessly out of the 
night. The young man went up and down, up and down 
mechanically. He had jumped down to recover himself of 
the numbness of his long drive, but numbness seemed to 
have taken possession of him body and soul. His mind had 
fallen into a sort of sullen calm. He asked himself whether 
he should take the trouble to accompany them back at all. 
Eochford and his father were all that were necessary. He 
was not wanted. He thought he would walk home, getting 
a little warmth into him, following the clamor of the cart, 
but so far behind that all the echoes would die out, and 
leave him in the silence, making his way home. Not to 


A POOK GE2STLEMAX. 


173 


Penton^ where for a moment lie had dreamed a glorious 
dream, and heard himself called old Sir AYalter^s heir, but 
home to the Hook, where he had been born, where to all 
appearance he would die, where he could steal to his own 
bed in the morning gray, and sleep and sleep, and forget it 
all. But now again anotlier revolution took place in him; 
he no longer wanted to sleep, all his faculties were wide 
awake, and life ablaze in him as if he never could sleep 
again. When Kochford at last came out with his bag, 
Walter acted as if there had never been a question in his 
mind, as he had acted all along; he sprung up to his place 
without a word, gathered the reins out of the groom^s 
hand, and took the road again, reckless, at the hottest pace. 
The horse was still fresh, rested yet fretted by the delay, 
and easily urged to speed. Walter did not know how to 
drive, he had no experience of anything more spirited than 
the pony-of-all-work at home, and it was solely by the 
light of nature, and a determination to get forward, that he 
was guided. The groom had not ventured to say anything, 
but Rochford was afraid, and remonstrated seriously. 

You can^t go downhill at this paee, you will bring the 
horse down, or perhaps break our necks,^^ he said. Pll 
not be too late,’^ said Walter, ‘‘ that is the only thing; we 
must be there in tinie.-^^ At the cross-roads Mr. Penton, 
shivering, was pulled up on the cart almost without stop- 
ping, and they dashed on once more. The landscape re- 
vealed itself little by little, rising on all sides in gray mist, 
in vague ghostly clearness — the skeleton trees, the solid 
mass of the houses, the long clear ribbon of the river light- 
ing the plain. And then Penton — Penton rising dark and 
square with its irregular outline against the clouds. There 
were lights in many of the windows, though every moment 
the light grew clearer. Dawn had come, the darkness was 
heeing away; had life gone with it? as it is said happens so 
often. Walter, dashing in at the open gates, urging the 
liorse U23 the avenue, did not ask himself this question. He 
felt a conviction, which was bitter at his heart, that he had 
completed his mission successfully, and that they had come 
in time. 


174 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

A DEATH-BED. 

Sir Walter lay in his luxurious bed, where everything 
was arranged with the perfection of comfort, warmth, soft- 
ness, lightness, all that wealth could procure to smooth the 
downward path. He was not in pain. Ev^en the restless- 
ness which is worse tlian pain, which so often makes the last 
hours of life miserable, an agony to the watchers, perhaps 
less so to the sufferer, had not come to this old man. He 
lay quite still, with eyes shining unnaturally bright from 
amid the curves and puckers of his heavy old eyelids, witli 
a half smile on his face, and the air of deliverance from all 
care which some dying people have. He was d3dng not of 
illness, but because suddenly the supplies of life had failed, 
the golden cord had broken, its strands were dropjiing 
asunder. The wheels were soon to stand still, but for the 
moment that condition of suspense did not seem to be pain- 
ful. There was fever in his eyes which threw a certain 
glamour over everything about. He had asked that the 
candles might be lighted, that the room should be made 
bright, and had called his daughter to his side. Perhajos it 
was only her own anxiety which had made her suppose that 
he had asked for Rochford and the papers. At all events, 
if he had done so, he did so no more. He held her hand, 
or rather she held his as she stood by him, and he lightly 
patted it with the other of his large, soft, feeble hands. 

^‘You are looking beautiful to-night — as I used to see 
you — not as you have been of late. Alicia, you are looking 
like a queen to-night.'’^ 

Oh, father, dear father, my beauty is all in your eyes.^^ 
“ Perhaps, more or less,"^ he said; I have fever in my 
eyes, and that gives a glory. The lights are all like stars, 
and my child^s eyes more than all. You were a beautiful 
girl, Alicia. I was very proud of you. Nobody but your 
father ever knew how sweet you were. You were a little 
proud outside, perhaps a little proud. And then we had 
so much trouble — together, you and I — 

She said nothing. She had not attained even now to the 
contemplative calm which could look back upon that trouble 


A POOK GEisTLEMA]^. 


175 


millly. It brought hard heart-beats, convulsive throbs of 
pain "to her bosom still. She had silenced him often by 
some cry of unsoftened anguish when he had begun so to 
speak. But as he lay waiting there, as it were in the vesti- 
bule of death, saying his last words, she could silence him 
no more. 

Something has occurred to-night,'’^ he said, that has 
brought it all back. What was it, Alicia? Perhaps your 
ball; the dancing — weVe not danced here for long enough 
— or the music. Music is a thing that is full of associations; 
it brings things back. Was there anything more? Yes, I 
think there must have been something more. 

She stood looking at him with dumb inexpressive eyes. 
She could not, would not say what it was besides, not even 
now at the last moment, at the supreme moment. All the 
opposition of her nature was in this. Love and pride and 
sorrow and the bitter sense of disappointment and loss, all 
joined together. She met his searching glance, though it 
was pathetic in its inquiry, with blank unresponsive eyes. 
And after awhile in his feebleness he gave up the inquiry. 

We have gone through a great deal together, you and 
I — ah, that is so — only sometimes I think there was a great 
deal of pride in it, my dear. My two poor boys — poor 
boys! I might be hard on them sometimes. There was the 
disappointment and the humiliation. God would be kinder 
to them. He^s the real father, you know. I feel it by 
myself. Many and many a time in these long years my 
heart has yearned over them. Oh, poor boys, poor sidy 
boys! had they but known, at least in this their day — 
Alicia! how could you and I standing outside know what 
was passing between God and them when they lay — as I am 
lying now?’^ 

Oh, father, father !^^ she cried, with an anguish in her 
voice. 

It is you that are standing outside now, Alicia, alone, poor 
girl; and you donT know what’s passing between God and 
me. A great deal that I never could have thought of — 
like friends, like friends! I feel easy about the boys, not 
anxious any longer. After all, you know, they belong to 
God, too, although they are foolish and weak. Very likely 
they are doing better — well, now — 

‘^Oh, father!” she cried, with a keen pang of pain at 


A POOR GEXTLEMAX. 


I o 

what she thought the wandering of his mind. You for- 
get, you forget that they are dead."*^ 

Dead!^^ he repeated, slowly. I don^’t forget; but do 
you know what that means? VVe never understand any- 
thing till we come to it in this life. Tm coming very close, 
but I don^t see — 3"et — except that it^s very dilferent — very 
different — not at all what we thought.''^ 

‘^Pather,^^ she cried, in the tumult of her thoughts; 
oh, tell me something about yourself! Are you happy— 
do you feel — do you remember — 

Alicia Penton had said the prayers and received the faith 
of Christians all her life, and she wanted, if she could, to 
recall to the dying man those formulas which seemed fit 
for his state, to hear him say that he was supported in that 
dread passage by the consolations of the Gospel. But her 
lips, unapt to speak upon such subjects, seemed closed, and 
she coul'i not find a word to say. 

Happy he said, with that mild reflectiveness which 
seemed to have come with the approaching end. ‘‘ It is a 
long, long time since Pve been asked that question. If 
you mean, ami afraid? No, no; I^m not afraid. Pm — 
among friends. I feel — quite pleased about it all. It will 
be all right, whatever happens. I donH seem to have any- 
thing to do with it. In my life I have always felt that I 
had everything to do with it, Alicia; and so have you, my 
dear; it^s your fault, too. We were always setting God 
right. But it^s far better this way. I^m an old fellow — 
an old, old fellow — and I wonder if this is what is called 
second childhood, Alicia; for I could feel,^^ he said, with 
the touching laugh of weakness, as if I were being carried 
away — in some one^s arms.^^ 

His heavy eyes, that were still bright with fever, closed 
with a sort of smiling peacefulness, then opened again with 
a little start. But it seemed to me just now as if there 
was something to do — what was there to do? — before I give 
myself over. I don^t want to be disturbed, but if there is 
something to do — Ah, Gerald, my good fellow, you are 
here, too. 

Russell Penton had come in to say that the men who 
had been sent for so hurriedly, they whose coming was so 
important, a matter almost of life and death, had arrived. 
He had entered the room while Sir Walter was speaking, 
but the hush of peace about the bed had stopped on his lips 


A POOK GENTLEMAI^. 


m 


the words he had been about to say. He came forward and 
took the other hand, which his father-in-law, scarcely able 
to raise it, stretched out toward him faintly with a smile. 

I hope you are better, sir,^’ he said, mechanically, bend- 
ing over the soft helpless hand, and under his breath to his 
wife, They are come,'’^ he said. 

Sbe gave him a look of helplessness and dismay, with an 
appeal in it. What could be done? Could anything be 
said of mortal business now? Could they come in with 
their papers, with their conflict of human interests and 
passion, to this sanctuary of fading life? And yet again, 
could Alicia Fenton make up her mind to be balked, dis- 
appointed, triumphed over in the end? 

Better — is not the word.^’ Sir Walter spoke very 
slowly, pausing constantly between his broken phrases, his 
voice very low, but still clear. ‘‘ I am well — floating away, 
you know — carried very softly — in some one’s arms. You 
will laugh — at an old fellow. But I don’t feel quite clear 
if I am an old fellow, or perhaps — a child.” Then came 
that fluttering laugh of weakness, full of pathetic pleasure 
and weeping and well-being. ‘‘But,” he added, with a 
deeper drawn, more difficult breath, ‘‘you come in quick- 
ly. Tell me — before it’s late. There is something on my 
mind — like a shadow— something to do.” 

Alicia held his hand fast; she did not move, nor look up; 
her eyes blank, introspective, without any light in them, 
making no reply to him, fixed on her father’s lace; but her 
whole being quivering with a conflict beyond describing, 
good and evil, the noble and the small, contending over 
her, in a struggle which felt like death. 

A similar struggle, but slighter and fainter was in her 
husband’s mind; but in him it wa*s not a mortal conflict, 
only a question which was best. Was it right to permit the 
old man to float away, as he said, without executing a proj- 
ect which seemed so near to his heart? Because it was not 
one which pleased Kussell Fenton, because he would rather 
that it should fail, he felt himself the more bound to his 
wife that it should not fail through him. 

“It seems almost wicked to disturb you, sir,” he said^ 
“ but I heard that you wanted Eochford; if so, he is here.” 

Alicia caught her husband by the arm, pressing it almost 
fiercely with her hand, leaning her trembling weight upon 


178 


A POOR GEKTLE]MAK. 


liini. But not to disturb you^ father/^ she cried, with a 
gasp. 

Ah!^^ said Sir Walter, ‘‘ I remember. What was it? 
I don^t seem to see anything — except those lights like stars 
shining; and Alicia, Alicia! How beautiful she is looking 
— like a girl — to-night. 

Her husband gave her a strange glance. She was grip- 
ping his arm as if for salvation, clutching it, her breath 
coming quick; her cheeks with two red spots of anxiety 
and excitement; her eyes dull, with no expression in the 
intensity of their passion, fixed on her father^s face. The 
white dressing-gown which she had thrown on when she 
was called to him was open a little at the throat, and 
showed the gleam of the diamonds which she had not had 
time to take off. It was not wonderful that in the old 
maii^s eyes,, with love and fever together in them, Alicia, 
in her unusual white, should seem for a moment to have 
gone back to the dazzle and splendor of youth. 

Sir Walter resumed after a moment, as though this little 
outbreak of tender admiration were an indulgence which he 
had permitted himself. ‘‘My mind's getting very hazy, 
Gerald — all quite pleasant, the right thing, no trouble in 
it, but hazy. I remember, and yet I don't remember. If 
I had but the clew — Rochford? — the young one, not the 
father. He's gone, like all the rest, and now the young 
one — reigns in his stead. Bring him, and perhaps I'll re- 
member. You could tell me, you two, but you're afraM to 
disturb me. What does it matter about disturbing me? a 
moment-and then — Send for him; perhaps I'll remember. " 

Alicia would scarcely let her husband go. She looked at 
him with terror in lier eyes. What was she afraid of? 
When he withdrew his arm from her she dropped down 
suddenly on her knees by her father's bedside with a low 
shuddering cry, and hid her face, pressing her cheek upon 
the old man's hand. The excitement had risen too high. 
She could bear it no longer. Complicated with all the 
aching and trouble of the moment, the bursting of this last 
tie of nature, the dearest and longest companionship of her 
life, to have that other anxiety, the miserable question of 
the inheritance, the trium23h or sacrifice of her pride, which 
yet, even amid the solemnity of death, moved her more 
than any other question oh earth — was something intolera- 
ble. It was more than she could bear. She sunk down. 


A POOR GEyTLEMAN. 


m 


partly out of incapacity to support herself, partly that she 
could not, dared not, meet her father^s eyes with their 
vague and wistful question. '‘You could tell me, 3"ou 
two. He had seen it, then, in her face, though she had 
made efforts so determined to banish all sign of compre- 
hension, all answer out of her eyes. And now, if he insisted, 
how could she refuse to answer him? and if Gerald per- 
ceived that the old man had found the necessary clew 
through her, what would he think of her? That slie had 
preferred her own aggrandizement to her father’s peace, 
that she had prompted him on the very edge of the grave 
to enrich herself. She could not sustain Sir Walter's look, 
nor face the emergency without at least that passive pro- 
tection of her husband’s presence, which for the moment 
was withdrawn. And Alicia trembled for the moment 
when the strangers would come into this sacred room; the 
lawyer, and Edward Penton behind him, hesitating, not 
without feeling (she knew^), looking sadly at the death-bed 
where lay one whom in his early days he had looked up to 
with familiar kindness. Nobody in the world, not even 
Gerald, could be so near to him in that moment as Edward 
Penton. She felt this even while she trembled at the 
anticipation of his coming. He was nearer than any one 
living. He would bring in with him the' shadows of those 
two helpless ones disappeared so long out of life. She be- 
thought her in that moment how it had been usual to say 
“the three boys.” Was her mind wandering, too? All 
these thoughts surged up into her brain in a wild confusion 
— the old tenderness, the irritation, the bitter jealous grudge 
at hkn who had outlived the others, the natural longing to- 
ward one who could understand. 

Sir AV alter was unaffected by any of these thoughts.; he 
felt it all natural — that the grief of his child should over- 
whelm her, that the sense of parting and loss should be 
profounder on her side than on his. After various efforts 
he raised his hand, which was so heavy, which would not 
obey his will, and laid it tenderly upon her bowed head. 
“ Alicia, my dear, child, don’t let it overwhelm you. AA’ho 
can tell even how small the separation is — as long as it 
lasts, and it can not last very long. You must not, you 
must not, my dear, be sorry for me. I tell you— it is all 
pleasant — sweet. I am not — not at all — sorry for myself. 
God bless you, my dear. He is so close that when I say 


180 


A POOR GEXTLEMAX. 


^ God bless you " it is as if, my love. He Himself was put- 
ting out His haiid/^ 

Oh, fatherl oh, father!"' she repeated, and could say 
no more. 

And he lay with his face turned to her, and his hand 
feebly smoothing, stroking her bowed head, as if she had 
been a child. She was a child to him, his young Alicia, 
looking so beautiful after her ball, in which he had seen 
her — had he not seen her? — admired of everybody, the fair- 
est, the most stately, with the Penton diamonds glittering 
at her white throat as they were now. He had her in his 
mind's eye so distinct, as he had seen her — was it an hour, 
w^as it a life-time ago? His breathing began to be dis- 
turbed, becoming more difficult, and his thoughts to grow 
more confused. He talked on, in broken gasps of utter- 
ance, more difficult, always more difficult. The fog in his 
throat — he began to feel it now; but always in flashes saw 
the lights gleaming, and Alicia in full beauty, with her 
eyes like the stars, and those other stars, less precious, yet 
full of luster at her throat. He took no note of outward 
things, being more and more absorbed — yet with a dnll- 
ness which softened everything, even the difficulty of the 
breath — in his own sensations, and in the sweep of the 
hurrying movement that seemed to be carrying iiim away, 
away, into lialcyon seas beyond, into repose and smiling 
peace. But the woman kneeling under his hand was as 
much alive to every sound and incident as he was dull to 
them. Nothing muffled her keen sense, or stilled the flood 
of thoughts that were pouring through her mind. She 
heard, her heart leaping to the sound, steps approaching 
softly, on tiptoe, every noise restrained. She heard a low 
murmur of voices, then the opening of the door; but she 
was afraid to lift her head, to startle her father. She dared 
not look up to see who was there, or how ho took the en- 
trance of the new-comers. As for Sir Walter, he was al- 
most beyond disturbance. His hand moved heavily from 
time to time over her head; sometimes there was a faint 
tremble when a breath came harder, nothing more. Would 
he die so? she asked herself, making no sign; was it ail 
sealed up forever, the source of life that had made the light 
or the darkness of so many other lives. Her own wildly 
beating heart seemed to stand still, to stop in the tremen- 
dous suspense. 


A POOR GENTLEMAX. 


181 


Can you hear me?’^ said her husband ^s voice, low and 
full of emotion. Eochford is here, sir; do you want 
him?’^ 

He shook his head as he spoke to. the two awe-stricken 
men behind. 

‘‘ Eh!’" Sir Walter gave a start as if half awakened. 

Who did you say? — I think — I must have been asleep. 
Some one who wants me? They’ll excuse a — a sick old 
man. Some one — who? — Gerald — whom did you say?” 

Eochford, sir, whom you wanted to see.” 

‘‘ Eochford! AVhat should I want with Eochford? He’s 
the— lawyer — the lawyer. We have had plenty to do with 
lawyers in our day. Yes — I think there was something if 
I could remember. Alicia, where is Alicia?” 

She rose up quickly, all those wild sensations in her 
stilled by this supreme call. am here, father,” she 

said. Her countenance was perfectly colorless, except for 
two spots of red, of excitement and misery, on her cheeks. 
Her lips were parched, it was with difficulty she spoke. 

‘‘ Yes, my love; stand by me till the last. What was it? 
I feel stronger. 1 can attend — to business. Tell me, my 
child, what it was.*” 

She stood for a moment speechless, turning her face to- 
ward them all with a look which was awful in its internal 
struggle. How was she to say it? How not to say it? 
Her fate, and the fate of the others, seemed to lie in her 
hands. It was not too late. His strength fluctuated from 
moment to moment, yet he could do what was needed still. 

‘‘ Father,” she began, moistening her dry lips, trying to 
get the words out of her parched throat. 

Sir Walter had opened his heavy eyes. He looked round 
with a bewildered, half-smiling look. Suddenly he caught 
sight of Edward Penton, who stood lingering, hesitating, 
half in sympathy, half in resistance, behind. The dying 
man gave a little cry of pleasure. ‘^Ah! I remember,” 
he said. 


CHAPTEE XXIIL 

‘^THE BOY.” 

They all came round, gathering about his bed, Eochford 
stooping, drawing the papers out of his bag, Edward Pen- 
ton approaching closer, looking with a revival in his bosom 


183 


A POOR GENTLEMAJiT. 


of all the forgotten feelings of his 3^0 nth upon the severed 
friend, the old protector, the fatherly patron of those days 
that were no more. To be sundered for years, and then to 
come again and see the object of the filial, friendly affection 
of the past, the man round whom your dearest recollections 
center, lying, whatever chasm may in the meantime have 
opened between, upon his death-bed — what heart can resist 
that? Scarcely the most obdurate, the most prejudiced; 
and Edward Penton was neither one nor the other. He 
came slowly forward and stood by the bedside, forgetting 
all about the motive which brought him thither, impatient, 
so far as he noticed them at all, of the presence of the 
strangers. He came close, placing himself before Russell 
Penton, who had no such claim to be there as he. He did 
not attempt to say anything, but claimed the place, he who 
was the last one left of the three boys; he whom they had 
hated rather than loved because he was the survivor, yet 
who forgot that entirely now, and everything involved in 
it. He stood by the side of Alicia as he had stood so often. 
He forgbt that there was any question between them. He 
had been brought, indeed, to sign and settle, but all that 
floated from him now. Russell Penton stood aside to let 
him pass, and the lawyer placed himself at the writing- 
table, which had been brought nearer, within reach of the 
bed, and where all the -papers had been laid out. Do 
you think he will be able to understand if I read them?^^ 
Rochford said, aside, to Russell Penton; or shall we try 
for his signature at once:’^ Russell Penton made no reply, 
except by a slight wave of his hand toward the bed. It 
seemed a profanity that any one should speak or occupy 
the attention of the group save he who was the center of 
it. Sir Walter^s eyes were open, his interest fully awak- 
ened. He watched while the writing-table was drawn for- 
ward and put in order. He gave one glance of recognition 
to Edward Penton at his bedside, but had not time, it 
seemed, for greetings, his whole mind being fixed on this 
thing which he had to do. 

had almost lost sight of it,^^ he said. Now, thank 
God, I remember — while I have the time. It will be — 
what you call a codicil. Alicia, you alwa3^s were generous; 
you wonT grudge it, Alicia?^^ 

Father!’^ she cried, bewildered by this preamble; then, 
in the rapid process of thought trying to believe that it was 


A POOK GEisTTLEMAN. 


183 


some farther compensation to Edward which was in her 
father^s mind. Yon know/^ she said, fervently, ‘‘ that 
I will grudge nothing that is your pleasure — nothing; you 
know that!"^ 

Yes, my love — I know; it is not money she would ever 
grudge. Alicia — no, no; but perhaps honor — or love. 
Eochford, what I want is about the boy.'’^ 

•'The boy!’^ Mrs. Eussell Penton turned quickly a 
searching glance on her father, to which his dim eyes made 
no response; then looked round with one rapid demand for 
explanation. She seemed to ask Heaven and earth what 
he meant. Could it be this? Could this be all:'^ 

'• The boy!^^ Hochford echoed, with amazement; " what 
boy, sirr^^ faltering. " There was nothing about any boy;^^ 
and he too gave Russell Penton a significant look, meaning 
that Sir Walter’s mind was wandering, and that no settle- 
ments could be possible now. 

" Gerald, you understand, tell them.” 

Sir Walter turned his eyes instinctively to the one im- 
partial. " The boy — Edw^ard’s boy. Alicia would i:ot see 
liow" like he w^as; but it was very plain to me — and a nice 
boy. He has the name as well, and he will have Penton. 
Eh, Penton? What w^as there about Penton?” The old 
man paused a moment, trying to raise his heavy brow, his 
drooping eyelids — and there w^as a great silence in the 
room; they all looked at each other, conscious, with some- 
thing like a sense of guilt, and no one ventured to be the 
first to speak. It ^vas Alicia, perhaps, who should have 
done it, but she felt as if her laboring bosom was bound by 
icy chains, and could not; or the lawyer, wRo gazed at her 
mutely, demanding whether he should say anything — wdiat 
he should say. It w^as but a moment, breathless, 2Dreci23- 
itate. Then, as if there had been nothing in it but the 
break of his difficult breathing. Sir Walter resumed, " He 
will have Penton, in the course of nature. But we’re long- 
lived, it may be a long time first. * Alicia,” he groped for 
her wdth the feeble hand which he could scarcely raise, 
moving the heavy fingers like a blind man. "Alicia, I 
w’ant, as long as I can, to do something for the boy.” 

She had turned half aw^ay, her hands had fallen by her 
side, a blank of something like despair had come over her. 
Xot for Penton! oh, not for Penton; but because he had 
glided away from her into the valley of darkness, and his 


184 


A POOR GENTLEMAI^-. 


mind had gone beyond the reach^ beyond the sphere of 
hers. To feel that as he did so the mind of her father, so 
long united to hers, as she had believed, in every tlioiight, 
took another turning, and disclosed other wishes, other 
sentiments, overwhelmed Alicia with a wild surprise. 
Death was nothing to that. It made heaven and earth 
reel to her with the greatness of the astonishment. But 
that too was but for a moment. She turned round, it 
seemed to the spectators instantly, though to herself after 
a pause which was tragical in its passion, and answered the 
feeble groping of the blind hand by clasping it in both of 
hers. Then she had to summon her voice from the depths,, 
to break the chains of ice. Whatever, she said, “ fa~ 
ther, whatever you wish.^^ 

There was something like reviving life; there was recon- 
ciliation, reunion, in the way his dull fingers closed upon 
hers. Had a shadow of doubt come over the dying mind? 
He breathed a long sobbing sigh, which was half satisfac- 
tion and half the prolonged effort of dying. To do some- 
thing,^^ he murmured, for the boy.^^ 

Here Eochford broke in, becoming accustomed to the 
solemnity of the scene, and recovering the instinct of busi- 
ness and a sense of the necessity of completing what he had 
in hand. But,^^ he said, this is not the business for 
which I was summoned. Everything is ready; there are 
only the deeds to sign; there is only the signature — 

Alicia gave him a warning look to stop him, and Eussell 
Penton put forth his hand with an impressive ‘Miush!^^ 
Perhaps it was the new voice that caught the attention of 
Sir Walter. He opened his eyes again, but half, showing 
only a sightless whiteness under the heavy lids. 
he said, was some one speaking? I caiiT hear any more, 
Alicia — what? what? — was it — about the boy — 

It was — our own business, father: but not to trouble 
you. It shall trouble’ you, she said firmly, but with an 
indescribable tone that said much, no more, no more.^^ 

A faint grateful smile came upon his face, the faintest, 
almost imperceptible, pressure of her hands. And then in 
a moment sleep came over the aged pilgrim so near the end 
of his career. They all stood in the silence of awe about 
the bed, watching, unable to believe that it was only sleep 
and^ not death. The one was almost more awful than the 
other would have been. That the common repose which 


A POOK GENTLEMAIS^ 


185 


refreshes all living things should come in the middle of 
dying seemed almost an unnatural break. Even love itself 
in such circumstances can not endure delays, and would 
fain push the bark of the soul out into the eternal sea. 
Mrs. Eussell Pentoii sat down by the bed, holding her fa- 
ther’s hand still in hers. And for some time her cousin 
stood beside her, silent, absorbed, standing mechanically 
with his eyes fixed upon the still face on the pillow. Ed- 
ward Penton was scarcely sensible of vyhat was passing 
round him. It seemed all to be going on in a dream, in 
which he saw and heard plainly enough, yet attached little 
meaning to anything that occurred. He had come to con- 
clude his bargain, touched, deeply touched by the condition 
of his old relation, his former protector and friend, but yet 
more occupied by the importance of the event to himself 
and to his wife and children, who were nearer to him still. 
But when he had entered the sick-room he had stepped 
into a dream— everything had changed. His business had 
sunk away, as it were, into the chaos of abortive projects. 
Nothing was required of him except to stand and look on 
reverently while the shadows of death gathered. His heart 
was deeply touched; it had seemed to him natural, only 
natural and fitting that he should stand by Alicia at this 
solemn moment. He was the nearest of her kin; he w^as 
the oldest of her friends; he had loved her in his time; even 
now there were no two people in the world who had the 
same hold upon his imagination and his memories as these 
two, the father and daughter. It was his right to be here 
more than Russell Penton ’s; nearer than any one else living 
he had a right to stand by her, to give her the support of 
an affection as old and almost as natural as her own. 
Though he had not seen Sir Walter for years, there was no 
one so nearly Sir Walter’s son as he. What was said about 
the boy perplexed him, almost made him impatient. The 
boy — what boy? He did not understand. He himself was 
the last of the three boys, the survivor, whose surviving 
had seemed a wound and injury, but which yet gave him 
rights which no one in the world, no one else could ever 
hav'e as he. 

The entrance of the doctor, who came in softly, and 
looked, with the gravity which dying commands from all, 
upon the sleeper, disturbed the group. The gentlemen 
withdrew to leave him free for his examination, and for the 


186 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


whispered directions which were necessary, carrying away 
the writing-table with all its useless arrangements. When 
he left the bedside they surrounded him with questions. 
Was it possible that there might be a period of revived 
strength? was it likely that he could attend to business still? 
Important business remained to be settled. The doctor 
shook his head. He gave them certain low-toned explana- 
tions which for the moment seemed to make everything 
clear, but in reality left them as little informed as ever; 
and, on the other hand, gave them a little lecture upon the 
folly of postponing business to such a moment. A man 
of Sir Walters’s age, and in his state of health, could never 
be calculated upon,^^ he said. I hope the business is not 
vital. To leave wills or settlements to the last is the great- 
est folly. A statement of this kind, superfluous and ab- 
solute, is at all times so much easier to give than a little 
enlightment upon the immediate ease. But how could the 
doctor tell any more than any spectator whether the old 
man would wake from that sleep to an interval of clearness 
and consciousness, or whether he would dream away the 
few remaining moments that lay between him and the end 
of his career? 

And then stillness fell upon them all, a period of utter 
quiet, of that waiting for death which is intolerable to the 
living. Alicia sat by her father^s bedside alone, still hold- 
ing his hand, watching his sleep, feeling nothing but the 
arrest of all things, the suspension of thought itself. The 
three men had withdrawn to the anteroom, where they 
waited for any movement or call. Eochford, who had no 
reason for any profounder feeling than that of respectful 
sympathy, drew near the fire in the shivering chill of the 
gray winter morning, and after awhile dozed and dreamed 
of the ball, with all its music and lights. Eussell Fenton 
seated himself close to the door, where he could see his 
wife at her father^s bedside. Her head was turned fi*om 
him, but yet it was giving her the support of his presence 
to be there. Edward Fenton was the only one who could 
not rest. He went to the window and gazed out blankly 
upon the cold misty morning light, now as full day as it 
was likely to be. All was whiteness upon the wide stretch 
of the landscape, the river milky and turbid under the feat- 
ureless whitish vapor that covered the sky, mist hanging 
about the ghostly trees, cold, damp, and penetrating, steal- 


A POOR GEXTLEMAi^. 


187 


ing to the heart; within the fire burned dimly, the lights 
had been put out, though from the door of Sir Waiter^s 
room still came a stream of candle-light shining unnaturally 
in the gray pale suffusion of the day. Mr. Penton wan- 
dered from the window to the fire, then stood behind Bus- 
sell Penton^s chair, and gazed into the hushed room where 
one lay dying and the other watching. He thought noth- 
ing about his business which was so strange; he had not yet 
awakened to the sense of those wandering inj unctions about 
the boy. He was troubled, sad, confused in his soul, only 
conscious of the close neighborhood of death, and that all 
somehow had fallen back into a kind of chaos out of which 
there seemed no apparent way. 

None of them knew how long the time was. It was end- 
less, intolerable, an awful pause in their own living, in 
which everything was arrested, even thought. For what 
could the thoughts do whirling vainly about a subject on 
which there could be no enlightenment, beating as it were 
against a blank wall all round and round? In reality it 
was not quite an hour when Alicia rose from the bedside 
and made a sign to her husband. Sir Walter^s voice broke 
again into the silence, eager, quick, startling, Eh! eh! 
What — what is it? Whak'.s to do? What^s to do?^^ 

They hurried in one after another, young Eochford wak- 
ing up with the air of the last waltz still in his ear, hasten- 
ing to the table, where all the papers were still laid out. 
Sir Walter had struggled up upon his bed and sat gazing 
out upon them, holding his daughter fast, who had jbastily 
drawn one of his arms over her shoulder by way of support. 
He looked like an old prophet, with his heavy eyelids 
raised, his white locks streaming. What is — to do? 
What am I to do — before I die? — before I — 

Eochford came forward with his deed, with the pen in 
his hand. If is only a signature,^ ^ he said. Sir Wal- 
ter, your signature — here — it is all simple; your name, 
that is all."^^ 

No one moved to help him. He stood holding out the 
pen, eager as if his own interests were involved, while the 
rest stood motionless, saying not a word, gazing at this 
venerable dying figure in that last blaze in the socket. 
Probably the old eyes, all veiled in whiteness like the mists 
of the morning, no longer saw anything, though they 
seemed to look out with solemn intelligence — for Sir Wal- 


188 


A POOR OEJi^TLEMAK. 


ter made no response; his question had required no answer; 
his eyes flickered with a movement of the lids, as though 
taking one other look round, then a smile came over his 
face. ‘VAlicia — will do it. Alicia — will think of — every- 
thing,^^ he murmured, and relapsing as it were upon him- 
self, sunk back, to resume the thread of conscious life no 
more. 

The night was over. The gray day, dim and calm, be- 
numbed with cold, and veiled with mists, yet full in its 
own occupations and labors, was in possession of earth and 
sky. Thus one ends while the others go on. There was 
no new beginning to those who were chiefly concerned* 
They stopped for a moment, then went on again, life 
sweeping back with all its requirements to the very edge of 
the chamber of death. When it was evident that no in- 
terval of consciousness was now to be looked for, the 
watchers went down-stairs and found breakfast, of which 
indeed they had great need, and talked in subdued tones 
at first, and on the one sole subject which seemed possible. 
But presently even this bond was broken, and Russell Pen- 
ton and Rochford discussed, a little gravely, the weather, 
the chances of frost, the state of the country. 

Edward Penton did not join in this talk, but he eat his 
breakfast solemnly, as if it had been a serious duty, saying 
nothing even to Wat, who had ventured to join the grave 
party. Wat was more worn out than any of them. He 
had not been able to rest, and he had the additional fatigue 
of the drive, not to speak of the wearing effect of the men- 
tal struggle to which he was so entirely unaccustomed. He 
wanted more than anything else to go home. Ally, up- 
stairs in her room, crying out of excitement and sympathy, 
and longing for her mother, had packed uj) all the pretty 
things which had served so little purpose, and was waiting 
very eagerly for the call to return to the Hook, which it 
Avould have been, oh! so much better had they never left. 
But there had been breakfast for everybody all the same, 
notwithstanding that the troop of servants were all very 
anxious, wondering what was to come of it, or rather what 
was to become of them, a more important question. The 
only evidence of this great overturn of everybody's habits 
in the house was that the room in which the dancing had 
been remained untouched, which was a wonderful depart- 
ure from the order and regularity of the household. But 


A POOR GENTLEMAi^". 


189 


everything is to be excused, the housekeeper herself said, 
in the confusion of a death in the family, though that was 
a thing for which, considering Sir Walter^s great age, they 
should all have been prepared. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE MASTER OE PEKTO]Sr. 

Mr. Pentoh waited through all the dreary day. He 
sent the young ones away peremptorily at the earliest op- 
portunity, without throwing any light to them on the state 
of affairs. It would be bad taste, the worst of taste, to 
have you here at such a time,^^ he said, but without ex- 
plaining why, “ Tell your mother 1 will come back when 
I can — but not before — He spoke in ellipses, with 
phrases too full of meaning to be put into mere words. 

Mab is coming with us, father/^ said Ally. ‘^We 
couldnT leave her here by herself. 

Mab? AVho is Mabr"^ said Mr. Penton, but he looked 
for no reply. His mind was too much absorbed to consider 
what they said to him. There seemed so little in their 
prattle that could not wait for another time. And his 
mind was full of a hundred questions. By this time, as 
was natural, the pathetic impression which had been made 
on him when he stood by his nucleus bedside through those 
solemn moments, and felt that next to Alicia it was he, of 
all the world, who Had the best right to be there, had died 
away. Common life had come back to him — his own posi- 
tion, the prospects of his family, what he was to do. He 
wandered about the house, up and down, with very much 
the air of a man inspecting it before taking possession, 
which was what he actually was. But no such conscious- 
ness was in his mind. He was overflowing with thought 
as to what he was to do in the -new crisis at which he had 
arrived. It was a crisis which ought to have been long 
foreseen, and indeed had been fully entered into in detail 
many a day. But lately it had been- put away from his 
thoughts, and other possibilities had come in. He had 
thrust Penton away from him, and allowed himself to feel 
the power of his wife'^s arguments, and even to act upon 
the possible increase of fortune which should be immediate, 
and bring no responsibility with it. Gradually, and with a 


190 


A POOK GEKTLEMAK. 


struggle, his mind had been brought to that point. But 
now aJJ this new condition of attairs was gone, and every- 
thing restored to the old basis. Tiie change had come in a 
moment, so far as he was concerned. He had not antici- 
pated it, had not thought of it, until Sir Walter had sud- 
denly lihed up his dying voice and began to talk of the 
boy. The boy! he did not realize even now, or scarcely ask’ 
himself, who was the boy. The crisis was too great for 
secondary matters. The real thing to think of was that 
the new deeds had never been signed nor completed, that 
no change had been made, that Penton was his, as he had 
always looked forward to it, not a new fortune unencum- 
bered and free, but Penton with all its burdens, with all its 
honors, with the old family importance, the position of 
which he had so often heard, and so often said, that it was 
one of the best in England. Perhaps at any time he would 
have been startled and alarmed by the first consciousness 
of entering into this great inheritance. It was not an ad- 
vancement that could be thought of lightly as mere getting 
on in the world. It was like ascending a throne. It was 
entering on a post rather than on a mere possession. The 
master of Peyton had claims made upon him which were 
different, he thought, from those of a mere country gentle- 
man. At any time there would have been solemnity in the 
prospect. But now that he had put it all away from him, 
and made up his mind to the other, to mere money without 
any position at all, and had calculated even on withdrawing 
from the smaller claims of Penton Hook, and setting up in 
perfect freedom, without any responsibilities, any land or 
burden of the soil, the awe with which he felt his natural 
importance come back to him, and all his plans brought to 
nothing, was great. It was as if Providence had refused to 
accept that sacrifice which he had not indeed been willing 
to make, which he had done not for his own pleasure but in 
deference to what seemed best for the children, more prac- 
ticable for himself. Providence had made light of all 
those deliberations, of the mother^s arguments, and his own 
laborious and cloudy attempts to decipher what was best. 
Whether it wa^ the best or the worst, in a moment God 
had changed all that, and here he was again at the point 
from which he had set out — ^master of Penton, or if not so 
already, at least in an hour or two to be. 

And he looked, to the servants at least, exactly as if he 


A POOK GEXTLEIMAN’. 


191 


were taking possession, inspecting his future propei’ty. He 
went from one room to another with eyes that seemed to be 
investigating everything, though in reality they saw noth- 
ing. He walked about the library with his hands in his 
pockets, looking at all the books, then from the windows 
over the park, which stretched away down to the river, and 
in which there was a great deal of w^ood that might come 
down. He lingered long over the view: was he marking 
in his mind the clumps which were thickest, where the 
trees most wanted cutting — the easiest w^ay to make a little 
money? Then he went to the dining-room and looked in 
the same keen way at the plate upon the sideboard, calcu- 
lating perhaps which were heir-looms and which were not. 
The butler had his eye upon the probable new master, and 
drew his own conclusions. And then he went to the draw- 
ing-room, where he remained a long time, looking at every- 
thing. The butler had a great contempt for the poor rela- 
tion who was about to come into this great property. I 
don 't knovv what he could find to do away with there,"’ ^ 
that functionary said, and suggested that perhaps the 
painted roof was the thing that had occupied the specula- 
tions of the hungry heir. As it happened, poor Edward 
Penton^s reflections were of the most depressed kind. He 
asked himself what would she do there — how could she set- 
tle herself and her w^ork-basket and the children among 
those gilded pillars? How were tjiey ever to furnish it? as 
she had said. His wife after all was a woman of great 
sense. She knew how difficult it was to adapt one way of 
living to another, to transpose a household from what was 
little more than a cottage to what w^as little less than a pal- 
ace. But now all her arguments were to come to nothing, 
and the revolution in his own mind to be set aside. He 
stood and shivered; for the heating had been neglected on 
this dismal and exciting day. The heating and everything 
else had been neglected, and the great room with one feeble 
fire burning was cold as any deserted place could be. What 
would she do there with Horry and the rest of the little 
ones, and her basket with the stockings to darn? Ally had 
asked herself the same question, but with a sort of awed 
satisfaction, feeling that this problem would never have to 
be solved. But now it had come. He strayed at last 
from the drawing-room through the corridor to the great 
room sometimes called the music-room, for there was an 


192 


A POOK C4E:N^TLEMA]S"-. 


organ in it, sometimes called the king’s room, since a 
sacred majesty had once, as at Lady Margaret Bellendean’s 
castle of Tillietudlem, broken his fast there — where the 
dancing had been. And here it was that the disorganiza- 
tion of the household became apparent. Shutters were still 
closed and curtains drawn in this room. The pale light 
struggled in by every crevice, by the folds of tlie shutters, 
from the large open chitnney, which was filled with fiowers. 
The walls were hung with greenery, garlands of ivy and 
holly, and feathery bunches of the seed-pods of the clem- 
atis. They had been beautiful last night; they were ghastly 
now, looking as if they had hung there for fifty years. 
There was something in the neglect, in the deserted place, 
in the contrast of all that faded decoration with the still- 
ness and desolation of the day, that suited Edward Pen- 
ton’s mood. The rest of the house suggested life and its 
ordinary occupations, neither sad nor glad, but serious and 
still. This was the banquet-hall deserted, which is of all 
human things the most dismal and suggestive. He walked 
up and down looking at the banks of liowers, half seen in 
this curious subdued and broken light. Here it was that 
the children were dancing, timid strangers, half afraid of 
it, and of all that was going on,^last night: and now to- 
day— 

Solemn steps came in at the other end, slowly advancing 
over the waxed and slippery fioor; a solemn figure in black, 
more grave than ever mourner was, holding its hands fold- 
ed. Sir,” the butler said, my mistress has sent me to 
tell you all is over, about a quarter of an hour ago.” 

All over! You mean, my uncle is dead.^” 

Sir Walter Penton died, sir, about ten minutes or a 
quarter of an hour ago, at twenty-five minutes past three; ” 

The butler took out his watch and looked at it with 
solemnity. Just twelve minutes since, sir, by the clock, 
sir. ” 

It cost the man a great effort not to say Sir Edward. 
Sir Edward it had been for twelve minutes by his watch; 
but the decorum and a sense that he was himself on the 
other side restrained him. He paused a minute, waiting 
for anything that might be said to him, then went back 
again, his footsteps sounding solemnly all the way upon 
the uncarjDeted fioor. Edward Penton sat down on one of 
the red chairs against the wall which the dancers had used. 


A POOR GENTLEMAN^. 


193 


A more forlorn picture could not have been made. The 
day breaking in through the shutter^ the drooping decora- 
tions, the waxed floor reflecting faintly those lines of pale 
light, and the man against the wall with his face hidden in 
his hands. He might have been a ruined spendthrift hear- 
ing of the final catastrophe of his fortune, hearing it with 
metaphorical propriety, amid the relics of feasting and 
merry-making. But no one would have recognized that 
picture to represent a man who had just come into his in- 
heritance. 

He met Rochford going away as he returned to the in- 
habited parts of the house. I suppose I need not hesi- 
tate to congratulate you,^^ the lawyer saia. 8ir Edward, 
it is not as if the poor old gentleman had been a nearer re- 
lation. 

“ I doiiT know what you call near. My uncle was the 
nearest relation I had of my name; nor why you should 
call him poor because he has just died.^^ 

‘‘I beg your pardon. I meant nothing; it is the ordi- 
nary way of talking, said the lawyer, somewhat abashed. 

And a very inappropriate one, I think,^^ Edward Pen- 
ton said. He had relapsed into his usual manner, in which 
there was always a little suppressed irritation. I suppose 
there never was any possibility of producing — He looked 
at the bag which Rochford carried. 

It is all so much waste paper, said the young man. 

I felt it was so as soon as I saw him; even if we could 
have got him to sign it would have been of no legal value; 
he was too far gone. It is curious, he added, to be so 
nearly done, and yet not done. I wonder if you are sorry 
or pleased?^ ^ 

Edward Penton made no reply. Rochford ^s ease and 
familiarity had seemed natural enough a few days ago, the 
conceit perhaps of a youngster, nothing more. Now it 
offended him, he could not tell why. ‘‘Do you know,^^ 
he said, “ if my cousin is still there?^^ He made a move- 
ment of his hand toward the room in which Sir Walter lay. 

“ She has gone to her own room; they have persuaded 
her to lie down. Mr. Russell Penton is about, I know, if 
you want to see him. 

Edward Penton went on wdth another wave of his hand. 
It was not so much his new position (though as a matter of 
fact he felt that), but the change in all things, and the con- 


194 


A POOK GEKTLEMAK. 


fused absorbing sentiment of all that had happened which 
made his companion disagreeable to him, like a presuming 
stranger. He liimself was as a man in a dream. As he 
came through those rooms again they too were changed. 
They were now his. All that foolish idea of having noth- 
ing more to do with them was past forever. They were 
now his. He walked through them with the step of the 
master, thinking involuntarily how this and that must be 
changed. The liouse had become to him a place no longer 
to be judged qn its merits as suitable or unsuitable for the 
habitation of his family, but one to be adapted, arranged,, 
borne with as being his own. Everything had changed — 
himself and his surroundings, his future, his place in the 
world, and the mind with which he approached that place. 
In the library, to which he returned as the room in which 
he was most likely to meet some one to whom he could 
talk, he found Russell Penton, and the two men instinctively 
shook hands with each other as if they had not met before. 

I hope there was no more suffering,^^ Edward Penton 

said. 

‘‘None, He never recovered consciousness, but just 
slept away. No man could have wished a calmer end. He 
has had a long life, and his dying has been very peaceful. 
What more could a man desire? 

Edward Penton bowed his head, and they stood together 
for a moment saying nothing, paying their tribute not only 
to the life but to the state of alfairs that was over. They 
both felt it, the one as much as the other. To Russell 
Penton it was, if not actual, at least possible freedom, es- 
pecially now that the Penton arrangement was over. He 
grieved for his father-in-law, if not painfully, yet sincerely. 
He was a venerable figure, a sustaining personality gone 
out of his life. He had so much less to clo and to think of, 
which was in its way a sorrowful thought. But with that 
came the secret exhilaration of the consciousness that now 
perhaps the guidance of his own life would be his own. He 
would not oppose Alicia nor endeavor to coerce her; that 
would be the greatest mistake, he felt; but it was likely 
enough that in her softened state she would of her own ac- 
cord subdue herself to this. At least, he hoped so, and it 
spread before him the prospect of a new existence^ After 
they had stood together silent for a minute, Russell Penton 
spoke. 


A TOOK GENTLEMAN. 


195 


''M think I ought to say this/ ^ ho said. ‘^Whatever 
Alicia may feel, and I fear she wilUbe disappointed, I am 
myself much more pleased, Penton, that things should be 
as they are. ’ ^ • 

I thought that was your feeling all along. 

Yes, they both knew it was; but I have always ab- 
stained from saying anything. My first desire was that she 
should as much as possible have what she liked best. She 
has well deserved it at my hands. 

Edward Penton said nothing on this subject. It was not 
one in which he could deliver his opinion. It is a great 
house, he said, and a great responsibility for a man 
with a large family like me.^^ 

You will find it perhaps easier than you think; every- 
thing is in very perfect order. Alicia would like me to tell 
you, Penton, that though it was too late to be added as a 
codicil, her father^s wish is sacred to her, and that it shall 
be as he desired about your boy. 

My boy! do you mean Wat? What has he to do with 
it?^^ Edward Penton cried, half affrighted. He who had 
so nearly parted with the birthright himself, he was a little 
jealous of any interference now: and especially of this, that 
the feelings of his son should be brought into account in the 
matter. 

‘‘You heard what Sir Walter said. Your son took his 
fancy very much. He found a resemblance, which I also 
can see: but Alicia dislikes to hear of it, and so will you, 
perhaps. 

“A resemblance!^^ said Edward; and then bethought 
of Walter Penton, his cousin. If Wat had not been like 
that unfortunate scapegrace why should he have thought of 
him now? He said, with energy, “ There is no resem- 
blance. They have dwelt so long on the memory of the boys 
that everything they see seems to have got identified with 
them. It was not so in their life. My boy Wat is more 
like — Why, you know, Eussell; you remember what a 
broken-down miserable — 

“ Huyh!^^ said Eussell Penton, lifting his hand. “ Let 
their memory be respected here. Alicia thinks with you; 
she sees no resemblance: but she will give effect to her 
father^s wishes. Everything he desired is sacred in her 
sight. 

“ I hope she will think no more of it,^^ said Edward Pen- 


196 


A POOR GEXTLEMAK. 


ton, growing red. Beg of her from me to think no more 
of it. I could not have — I should not wish — in short, I 
should prefer nothing more to be said on the subject. He 
was an old man. His memory had got confused. As I 
can not be of any use here, can I have something to drive 
home? My wife will be anxious, she v/ill want to know.^^ 
And then there was a few minutes^ brief conversation 
about the funeral and all the lugubrious business of such a 
moment. It was with a sense of relief that Edward Penton 
quitted for the first time the house that was his own. He 
looked back upon it with curiously mingled feelings. He 
was glad to get awaj^ It was mi escape to turn out of the 
avenue into the clear undisturbed air in which there was 
nothing to remind him of the close still atmosphere, the 
silence, the associations of this fatal place. But yet when 
he looked back his heart swelled with a sensation of pride. 
It was his. He had given up thinking of it, avoided look- 
ing at it, weaned his heart in eveiy way from that house of 
his fathers. Never man had tried more honestly than he 
to give it up, entirely and from the bottom of his heart — • 
this thing which was not to be for him. And now, without 
anything that could be called his doing, lo! it had come 
back into his hands. It was the doing of Providence, he 
thought: his heart swelled with a sort of solemn pride. As 
he went silently along, the landscape took another aspect 
in his sight. It was the country in which he was to spend 
all the rest of his life. It was his country, in which he was 
one of the chief people, a man important to many, known 
wherever he passed. By degrees a strange elation got into 
his mind. Drive quickly, I am in haste to get home,^^ 
he said to the groom who drove him. Yes, Sir Edward,^ 
said the man, respectfully. He had changed his very name 
— everything was changed. Then as the red roof of Pen- 
ton Hook appeared below at the foot of the hill he thought 
of the anxious faces looking out for him, the young ones 
with awe in them, thinking of the first death that had 
crossed their way; his wife wistful, ready to read in his face 
what had happened. But none of them knowing what had 
really happened — that Penton was his after ail. 


END OF FIRST HALF. 


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IN TWO PARTS. 

Part I.— THE PHILOSOPHY OF WHIST PLAY. 

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By WILLIAM POLE, 

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■ I III. I II ■— - 11.. " I I [. I , iiM^. 

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SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION), HO. 745. 

FOR ANOTHER’S SIN: 

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HUNTERS’ YARNS. 


A COLLECTION OF 

Wild and Amusing Adventures: 

COMPRISINS 

THRILLING BATTLES WITH INDIANS, TER- 
RIFIC ENCOUNTERS WITH SERPENTS 
AND ALLIGATORS, LONG SWIMS, 
RACES FOR LIFE, WONDERFUL 
FISH AND GHOST STORIES, 

Etc., Etc., Etc., 

As Related by Hunters to their Compan- 
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This book is beyond question the best publication of its class thai 
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price: CEIVXS. 


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MUNRO’S PUBLICATION& 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

ORDINARY EDITION. 


GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s FubHsbing Honsei 


The followingr works contained in Tbe Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition^ 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, 
on receipt of the price, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will pieasM 
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MRS. ALEXANDER'S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest F oe , 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton's Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

§32 Maid, Wife, or Wido'V 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Yalerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 ;Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK'S WORKS. 

18 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

, 4S The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton lO 

5T Kilmenv 10 


TEE SEASIDE LIBBARY.—Ordinwry Emm, 

p ’ “ " " ~ ' 

329 Wuthering Heights 10 

488 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

;098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1138 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 26 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story. 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) •: 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes. ..... 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret * 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money. 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel. 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life, 10 





THE 


New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price 35 Cents Per Copy : $3.00 Per Year. 


All yearly subscribers on our list on the first of December will be 
entitled to a beautiful chromo, entitled: 

“HAPPY AS A KING.” 

The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It , 
contains everything which a lady’s magazine ought to contain. 
The fashions in dress which it publishes are new and reliable. Par- 
ticular attention is devoted to fashions for children of all ages. Its 
plates and descriptions will assist every lady in the preparation of 
her wardrobe, both in making new dresses and remodeling old ones. 
The fashions are derived from the best houses and are always prac- 
tical as well as new and tasteful. 

Every lady reader of The New York Fashion Bazar can make 
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The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of 
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Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “ The Duch- 
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The stories published in The New York Fashion Bazar are the 
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P. O. Box 3751. 17 TO 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 




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(SECOND HALF.] 


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BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER: 

A FEW DAYS AMONG 

OUR SOUTHERN BRETHREN. 

BY HENRY M. FIELD, D.D., 

Auihoi' of '‘'From the Lakes of Killamey to the Golden Horn," “ From Egyp>. 
to Japan" "On the Desert " "Among the Holy Hills" and 
“ The Greek Islands, and Turkey after the War." 


Of Doctor Field’s new book the New York Observer says: “ Doctor Field has 
written many good books of travel in foreign lands; but this little book of 
letters from our own United States, and which he has called ‘ Blood is Thicker 
THAN Water,’ will be judged by many to be the best of all.” 

The New York Independent says: ” The volume has a large part of its charm 
in the fact that it is brimming over with reminiscences of the war, pictures of 
battles succeeded by peace, with hand^akings of Federals and Confederates,, 
all content now to belong to one general United States. Doctor Field has suc- 
ceeded wonderfully ip investing with rare interest a somewhat prosaic and 
common tour by connecting it with the high sentiments of patriotism and na- 
tional faith. While the volume is written for the ordinary intelligent reader, 
may we venture to remark that it is just such a book as we would like to put m 
the hands of the young; and which, though not professedly a religious book,, 
we should be very glad to have shove out of the Sunday-school Library many 
more pious but really less Christian and less useful volumes.” 

The New York World says: “Doctor Field’s brilliant descriptions of the- 
scenes visited, his reminiscences of the war, taken from the lips of ex-Confeder- 
ate officers, the vivid contrast he draws between the horrors of battle and the 
present plenty and contentment of peace and prosperity, delight the reader 
and lead to the regret that the volume is not»twice as long as it is. . . . It is 
not merely a pleasing book of travel ; it is a volume which should have a wide 
influence in further cementing the bonds which now hold the north and soutii 
together in the strength and affection of indissoluble union.” 


For Sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers. 

PRICE 25 CENTS. 


Sent by maQ, postage free, on receipt of 25 cents. Address, 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

MUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 
t7 to *27 Vandewater Street, New Voirk^ 


A POOR GENTLEMAN 


By MRS. OLIPHANT. 


SECOND HALF. 





NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 






MKS. OLIPHANT^S WOEKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY <POCKET EDITION); 

NO. ' PRICE 

45 A Little Pilgrim ...” ... 10 

^.^^177 Salem Chapel ... . . . 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife . ... . . .30 

321 The Prodigals, and their Inheritance . . . 10 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray, ♦ 

' including some Chronicles of the Borough of Fendie 20 
345 Madam ... . . . . . . 20" 

351 Tlie House on the Moor 20‘ 

* 357 John . , 20 

370 Lucy Crofton 10 

‘ 371 Margaret Maitland 

' 377 MagdMen Hepbiirh ; A Story of the Scottish Reforma- 
tion : / . .... . . . 20 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passaged in the Life of Mrs. Margaret 

Maitland of Sunnyside . . . . . . 20' 

415 Old Lady Maiy . ... . . . .10 

527 The Pays of My Life . , . . . . 20 

— ^^52<S At His Gates 20 

,568 The Perpetual Curate .... .20 

20 

603 Agnes. First half 20 

603 Agnes. Second half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. First half . 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. Second half . 20 

605 Ombra 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Portrait . . . . 10 

687 A Couijitry Gentleman 20 

'--^03 A House Divided Against Itself .... 20 

710 The Greatest Heiress in England .... 20^ 

827 Effie Ogilvle 20 

' 902 A Poor Gentleman. First Half 20 

. , 902 A Poor Gentleman. Second Half .... 20 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


' . rj - . 


CHAPTER XXV. 

AN ENCOUNTER UNFORESEEN. 

The young people drove from Penton to the Hook very 
silent and overawed, the two girls close together, and Walter 
opposite to them, looking very heavy and dull, his eyes red 
with want of sleep and the air of one who has been up all 
night in every line of him. It is curious what an air of neg- 
lect this gives even to the clothes. He felt shabby, out of 
order, in every way uncomfortable in body and dazed in 
mind, not feeling that he knew anything about what had 
happened, nor that he cared to think of that. He almost 
went to sleep with the closeness and the motion of the car- 
riage, and took no more notice of the presence of the stran- 
ger opposite to him than if she had been another sister. It 
had annoyed him for the first moment, to have her there, 
but by this time he w^as quite indifferent to the fact, in- 
different to everything, dazed with sleep and agitation and 
thd weakening influence of a struggle past. But there 
came a moment as they neared home when his senses re- 
turned to him with a bound. He was looking vaguely out 
of the carriage- window seeing nothing, when suddenly, 
vaguely, there appeared at a distance, going up a road 
which led away from the main road deep into the quiet of 
the fields, a solitary figure. It was little more than a speck 
upon the road, a little shadow almost like that of a child; 
but it woke Walter fully up in a moment and made his 
heart beat. He called to the coachman to stop, to the 
great astonishment of Ally, who thought that something 
more must have happened in a day so full of fate, and cried 
out, ■ 

‘‘ What is it, Wat, what is the matter?^^ with anxiety in 
her tone. 

“ Nothing, he said, opening the door as the horses 
drew up; “ but I should prefer to walk if you don’t mind; 
I think I shall go to sleep altogether if I stay here. ” 



198 


A POOR GENTLEMAN'. 


‘‘ Shall I come too?^^ said Ally; but a glance at her com- 
panion showed her that this was impracticable. 

Oh, Wat, don^t be long! Mother will want to ask you 
— she will want to know — ’ ^ 

You can tell her as much as I can, he said, taking off 
his hat in honor of Mab, who looked out with much sur- 
prise at this sudden interruption of the drive, which was so 
dreary and yet so full of novelty and interest. And then 
the carriage went on. 

Ally looking out of the window saw with great perplex- 
ity and distress that he turned back along the road. Was 
he going back to Penton? where was he going? Mab by 
her side immediately interposed with a reason. 

^^Men doiPt like close carriages,^ ^ she said; they al- 
ways prefer walking coming home from places. I doii^t 
wonder; I should walk if I might. 

We might if we were to go together, said Ally; we 
always walk with Walter, Anne and I. He likes it too. 
Let us — But then she remembered that Wat had given 
no sort of invitation. And when she looked out agaiii he 
had vanished from the road. Where had he gone? This 
was very startling, not to be explained by anything that oc- 
curred to Ally. She added quickly, But it is very cold, 
and mother will be anxious. And the carriage rolled on 
without any further interruption through the village and 
down the steep and stony way. 

Walter could not have restrained himself even had the 
occasion of his leaving them been now apparent. He felt 
as if all his life were involved in getting sj^eech of her, in 
receiving her sympathy and hearing her voice. He had 
never had such an opportunity before, never met her, 
scarcely in daylight seen her face, and to see her pursuing 
the loneliest road, where nobody ever appeared, which led 
nowhere in ])articular, where he could have her all to him- 
self without the possibility of being sent away! He hur- 
ried along after her, striking across a field and dropping 
over a low wall, which brought him immediately in fix)nt 
of her as she strolled along. She gave a little cry at sight 
of him, or rather at the suddenness of the apparition, not 
distinguishing at first who it was. She was dressed in very 
datk stuff with some rough fur about her throat and a 
thick gauze veil shrouding the uj)per part of her face. The 
little outline was so slim and pretty that any imperfection 


A POOK GE^nTLEMAN. 


199 


in costume or appearance was lost in the daintiness of the 
trim form. Indeed, how should Walter have seen any im- 
perfection? She was not like anybody he had ever known. 
What was different could not but be an added grace. 

“ You didn^t expect to see me/^ he said, coming up to 
her with his hat in his hand. 

‘‘ How should I? I thought no one knew this jDath but 
is so quiet. And I saw no one on the road, nothing 
but a carriage. Ah, I know I You jumped out of the 
carriage. It was hot and stifling, and there were ladies in 
it who made you do propriety. I know.^^ 

‘‘There was my sister,^ ^ said Walter, “ but I saw you. 
That was my reason, and the best one a man could have. 

“ You are only a boy,^^ she said, shaking her head with a 
smile. Only her chin and lips were clear of that envious 
thick veil. The rest of her face was as if behind a mask, 
but how sweet the mouth was, and the smile that curved 
it! “ And how could you tell it was I? Everybody wears 
the same sort of thing, tweed frock, and jacket, and — 

“ There is nobody like you; it is cruel to ask me how I 
knew. If you would only understand — 

“ I have heard that sort of thing before, Mr. Penton."^’ 

“ Yes, I doiiT doubt every fellow would say it, of course; 
but nobody could mean it so much as I. 

“ ThaPs what you all say; but I donT believe it a bit; 
only I suppose it amuses you to say it, and it does, a little, 
amuse me.. There are so few things,'’^ she said, with a 
sigh, “ to amuse one here.^^ 

“That is what I feel,^’ cried the lad; “nothing — we 
have nothing to keep you here. It is all so humdrum and 
paltry — a little country place. There is nothing in it good 
enough for you. 

She laughed with an air of keen amusement, which in his 
present condition slightly jarred upon Walter. 

“ It is a great deal too good for me,^^ she said, “ old 
Crockford’s niece. If anybody speaks to me I courtesy and 
say, ‘ Yes, ma’am, iPs doing me good, it is indeed, this flue 
fresh air. ’ ’ ’ 

“ I wish,^’ said the bo^q “ you would drop this, and tell 
me once for all who you really are. I’m not happy to-day. 
We are all in great trouble. I wish you would not laugh, 
but just be serious once.” 

_ “ Oh, no, sir. I’ll not laugh if you don’t like it — nor 


; A POOR OEKTLEMAX. 

nothing else as you don^t like. 1 kjiows my place and how 
to behave to my betters. I^m Emmy^, old Orockford^s niece. 
And she paused in the middle of the road to make him a 
courtesy. Eve never said nothing else, now ^ave I, sirr^ ' 

Me looked at her with irritation beyond expression. 
Could not she see that he was in no humor for jest to-day? 
And yet he could not but feel that the tone of her imitation 
was perfect, and that as she said these latter words it was 
certainly in the voice and with the manner which old Crock- 
foixEs niece woirld have employed. 

You don^t know,^" he said, ‘‘ how you fret me with all 
that. I thought when I saw you that Ed fly to you and 
get comforted a little. I don "'t want to have jokes put upon 
me just now. All this is very amusing — it’s so well done 
— and it’s so droll to think that it’s you; but I have been 
through a great fight this morning,” said Walter, with that 
self-pity \yhich is so warm at his age. He felt his eyes 
moisten, something was in his throat — he was so sorry for 
himself; and he almost' thought it would be best, after all, 
to hurry home to his mother, who always understood a 
man, instead of lingering out here in the cold, even with 
the most delightful, the most enthralling of women, who 
would do nothing but laugh. He was in this mood, with 
his eyes cast down, his head bent, standing still, yet with a 
sort of movement in his figure as if he would have gone 
away again, when suddenly a shock, a thrill of sweeter con- 
wsciousness went through him — and his whole being seemed 
rapt in delicious softness, comprehension, consolation. She 
had put her hand suddenly on his arm with a quick, im- 
pulsive movement. 

"^Poor boy!” she said. “You have been in a great 
fight? Tell me all about it.” 

Her voice had changed to the tenderest, coaxing tone. 

“ Ah!” he exclaimed, in sudden ecstasy, holding close to 
his side the hand that had stolen within his arm — and for 
some time could say no more. 

“Well?” 

“ Yes, yes!” cried Walter, “ I’ll tell you presently. I 
don’t know that I want to tell you at all. 1 want you to 
take an interest in me. ” 

t “ Oil, if that is all!” she said: then, after a moment, 
drew her arm away. “If we should meet any one, Mr. 
Walter Fenton, it would not look at all pretty to see you 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


201 

walking arm in arm with a — girl who lives in the village; 
a girl whom nobody knows, and, of coarse, whom every- 
body thinks ill of; but l ean hear you quite well without 
that. Come, tell me what it is. Did you say a fright or 
a fight? 

“ Both,^^ said Walter. He made various attempts to 
recover the hand again, but they were all fruitless. The mere 
touch, however, had somehow — ^how he could not tell — 
made things more natural, harmonized all the contrarieties 
in life, brought back a better state of affairs. The fumes 
of sleep and fatigue seemed to die away from his brain: the 
atmosphere grew lighter. It did 'not occur to him that to 
disclose the most private affairs of his family to this little 
stranger was anything extraordinary. He told her all about 
the bargain between his father and his cousin, and how he 
himself had been left out, and his consent never asked, 
though he was the heir; and what had happened this morn- 
ing — how he had been sent to fetch the. parties; to this 
bargain, and the papers, and how he had been tempted to 
delay or not to go. 

“ If I had not answered from my room when I heard 
them, if I had pretended not to hear, if I had only held 
back, which would have been no sin! Should I have done 
it? ShouldnT I have done it?’^ cried Walter, quite una- 
ware of the absurdity of his appeal. 

The girl listened to all this with her head raised to him 
in an attitude of attention, but in reality with the most di- 
vided interest and a mind full of perplexed impatience. 
What did she care about his doubts — doubts and difficulties 
which she could not understand — which did not concern 
her? Her attention even flagged, though her looks did 
not. She wanted none of this grave talk : it was only the 
lighter kind of intercourse which she fully understood. 

“ Then it was you,’^ she said, seizing the only tangible 
point in all this outburst, “ that I heard thundering past 
the cottage lust before daylight? I could nT think what 
it could be 

“ Did you hear me? I looked up at the windows, but 
they were all closed and shut up. Iwish,'’^ cried the young 
man, “I had known you were awake, I should not have 
felt so desolate.'’^ • 

“ Oh!^^ she cried, with a little toss of her head, “ what 
good could that have done you?^^ Then, seeing the cloud 


202 


A POOR GEXTLEMAX. 


come over his face again which had lifted for a moment, 
And how has it all ended?^'' she asked. 

^^Endedr^^ He looked at her with surprise. He had 
not even asked himself that question, or realized that there 
was a question at all. How could it end but in one way?^^ 

It is so good of you to tell me/’ she resumed, when 
I am only a stranger and know nothing; but I hope they 
won't succeed in cheating you out of your money. 

My money? oh, there is nothing about money. Money 
is not the ^question. 

I knovv,^^ she said, with a pretty air of confusion — 
your property I anean; but they couldn^t really take it 
from you, could they? Tell me what you will do when 
you come into your own. I should like to know."^^ 

Walter^s heart stood still for the moment. He felt as if 
he had suddenly come up against a blank world. Was this 
all she understood or would take notice of, of the struggle 
he had gone through? Had -she no feeling for his moral 
difficulties or sym23athy : or was it perhaps that she thought 
that struggle too private to be discussed, and thus rebuked 
him by turning the conversation aside from that too deli- 
cate channel? In the shock of feeling himself misunder- 
stood he paused, bewildered, and seized upon the idea that 
she understood him too clearly, and checked him with a 
more exquisite perception of her own. ‘‘You think I 
should not speak of itr^^ he said. “You think I should 
not blame — you think — Oh, I understand. A delicate 
mind would not say a word. But I would not, except to 
you. It is only to you. 

“ ISTow I wonder, said the girl, “ why it should be to 
me? for I doiiT understand anything about it. And all 
that you^'e been telling me about wanting one thing add 
doing another, I canT tell what you mean — excejDt that I 
hope it will end very well, and that you will get what you 
want and be able to live very happy at the end. That^s 
how all the stories end, don^t you know. And tell me, 
when you came into all that fine property, what will you 
do?^^ 

She wanted nothing but to bring him back to the badi- 
nage which she understood and could play her part in. All 
this grave talk and discussion of what he ought or ought 
not to have done embarrassed her. Slie did not under- 
stand it, and yet she knew by instinct that to show how 


A POOR GEKTLEMAN. 


203 


little she understood would be to lose something of her at- 
traction; for though she was scarcely capable of compre- 
hending the ideal woman whom the youth supposed he had 
found in her, yet she divined that it was not herself but an 
imaginary being who was so sweet in AYalter^s eyes. Per- 
haps it was even with a dull pang and sense of her inferior- 
ity that she discovered this; but she could not make her- 
self other than she was. At any risk she had to regain 
that lighter tone which was alone possible to her. She put 
up* her veil a little and looked at him with a sort of laugh- 
ing provocation in her eyes. It was a vulgar version of the 
‘‘ Come, woo me,^' of the most delightful of heroines. She 
could understand him or any man on that ground. She 
knew how to reply, to elude, or to lead on; but in other 
regions she was not so well prepared; she preferred to lead 
the conversation back to herself and him. 

I do not suppose, he said, in a subdued tone, that 
there will be any property to come in to.'’^ 

Oh, that is nonsense, she said, putting this denial 
lightly away; of course there will be property some time 
or other. And when you come into your fortune, tell me, 
what shall you do:^^ 

Walter gave up with a sigh his hope of receiving sup- 
port and consolation; but even now he was not able to fol- 
low her lead. ‘‘ I suppose,^ ^ he said, very uncheerfully, 
“ I shall have to go to Oxford. That^s the only thing I 
shall be allowed to do.'^^ 

‘‘ Oh, to Oxford she cried, with disdain. 

‘^Idon^t know that I wish it, only it^s the right thing 
to do, I suppose,^^ said Walter, with another sigh. ‘‘ Don^t 
you think so?^-’ 

I think so? No, indeed! If I were you — oh, if I 
were you! That^s what I should like to be, a young gen- 
tleman with plenty of money and able to do whatever I 
pleased. 

Oh,^^ he said, with a shudder, don^t say so; you who 
are so much finer a thing — so much — don^t you know — it 
is a sort of sacrilege to talk so."^^ 

At this she laughed with frank contempt. ‘‘ That^s 
nonsense/^ she said; but I should not go to Oxford. Fd 
go into the Guards. It is they that have the best of it; al- 
most always in London, and going everywhere, I should 
not marry, not for years and years !^^ 


^04 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 


Marry cried Walter, and blushed, which it did not 
occur to his companion to do. 

Xo, I should not marry,^^ said the girl; I should 
have my fuQ, that is, if I were a gentleman. I should make 
the money go; I should go in for horses and all sorts of 
things. I should just go to the other extremity and do 
everything the reverse of what I have to do now. That^s 
because I can do so little now. Come, tell me, Mr. Pen- 
ton, what should you dor^^ 

Walter was much discomposed by this inquiry. He was 
disturbed altogether by the turn the conversation had 
taken. It was not at all what he had intended. He felt 
baffled and put aside out of the way; but yet there was an 
attraction in it, and in the arch look which was in her eyes. 
He felt the challenge and it moved him, notwithstanding 
that in his heart he was dee2)ly disappointed that she had 
throwm back his confidences and not allowed herself to be 
drawni into his thoughts. He half understood, too, whither 
she wanted to lead him — into those encounters of wit in 
which she had so easily the mastery, in which he was so 
serious, pleading for her grace, and she so capricious, so 
full of mystery, holding him at bay. But he could not all 
at once, after all the ex2)eriences of the morning, begin to 
laugh again. 

I am stupid to-day, he said. I can^t think of fort- 
une or anything else. I dare say I should do just the 
reverse of what you say/’ 

^^What! marry?^"' she said. Oh, silly! You should 
not think of that for years. 

I should do more than think of it/" cried Walter, if 
I — if you — if there Mras any chance — "" The boy blushed 
again^ half with the shy emotion of his years, the sudden 
leaping of his blood toward future wonders unknown. And 
then he stopped short, breathing hard. Y^u tempt me 
to say things only to mock me,"" he said. You think it 
is all fun; but I am in earnest, deep in earnest, and I mean 
what 1 —"" 

He stopped suddenly, the w^ords cut short on his lips. 
They had turned a corner of the road, and close to them, 
so close that Walter stumbled over the stones on which he 
was seated, slowly chipping away wdth his hammer, was 
old Crockford, with ruddy old face, and white hair, and 
his red comforter twisted about Ids neck. 


A POOR GENTLEMAK. 


205 


that you, baggage said the old man, v^ho saw 
the girl first as they came round the corner, What mis- 
chief are ye after now? I never see one like you for mis- 
chief. Why can^t ye let the lads alone? W^hy, Master 
WalterT^ he cried, in consternation, letting the hammer 
fall out of his hand. 

“ Yes, Crockford. What^s the matter? Do you think 
I am a ghost?^^ said Walter, in some confusion. It was 
cowardly, it was miserable, it was the smallest thing in the 
world. Was he ashamed to be seen with her, she who was 
(he said to himself) the most perfect creature, the sweetest 
and fairest? No, it could not be that* it was only what 
every young man feels when a vulgar eye spies ujion his 
most sacred feelings. But he grew very red, looking the 
old stone-breaker, the road-mender, humblest of all func- 
tionaries, in the face as he spoke. 

Ghost!^^ said old Crockford, a deal worse than that. 
A ghost could do me no harm. 1 don’t believe in ^em. 
But the likes of A that’s another pair o’ shoes. 1 
know’d as she’d get me into trouble the moment I set 
eyes on her. Be off with you home, and let the young 
gentleman alone. You’ve made him think you’re a lady^ 
I shouldn’t wonder. And if Mr. Fenton found out he’d 
put me out of my cottage. Don’t give me none of your 
sauce, but run home. ” 

I have done no harm,” said the girl. Mr. Fenton 
couldn’t put you out of your cottage because I took a walk. 
And you can send me away when you please. You know 
I’m not afraid of that.” 

I know you’re always up to mischief,” said the old 
man, ^^and that if it isn’t one it’s another. I’ve had 
enough of you. There’s good and there’s bad of women 
just like other creatures, but for making mischief there’s 
naught like them, neither beasts nor man. Be off with you 
home.” 

Crockford, you forget yourself. That’s not a way to 
speak to a — to a young lad}^” cried Walter, wavering be- 
tween boyish shame and boyish passion. And as for my 
father*— 

‘‘ A young lady; that’s all you know! Do you know 
•who she is, Mr. Walter?” cried the old man. 

‘‘I am old Crockford ’s niece,” said the girl, and I 
know my place. I’ve never given myself out for any more 


206 


A POOli GENTLEMAN. 


than I am; now have I, sir? Thank you for walking up 
the hill with me, and talking so kind. But it^s time I was 
going home. He^'s quite right, is the old man; and iny duty 
to you, sir, and good-day; and I hope you will come into 
your fortune all the same. 

How was it that she turned, standing before him there 
in the road in all her prettiness and cleverness, into. Crock- 
ford^s niece, with the diction and the air proper to her 

place, was what Walter could not tell. She cast him 
a glance as she turned round which transfixed him in the 
midst of his wonder and trouble, then turned and took the 
short cut across the field, running, getting over the stile 
like a bird. Which was she, one or the other? Walter 
stood and gazed stupidly after her, not knowing what to 
think or say. 


CHAPTEE XXVL 

THE NEW STATE OF AFFAIRS. 

When Mr. Penton in the dog-cart was heard coming 
down the steep path to the open gates there was a univer- 
sal rush to door and window to receive him. The delay 
in his coming had held the household in a high state of 
tension, which the arrival of the carriage with Ally and the 
young visitor increased. The girls could give no informa- 
tion except that Sir Walter was very ill, and that Mr. Eus- 
sell Penton himself had put them into the carriage and 
sanctioned their coming away. Ally took her mother anx- 
iously aside to explain. 

I didnT know what to do. She is Mr. Eussell Pen- 
ton^s niece; she has no father or mother. She wanted to 
come, and he seemed to want her to come. Oh, I hope I 
havenT done wrong! I couldnT tell what to do.^^ 

Of course, there is the spare room,^^ said Mrs. Pen- 
ton, but she was not delighted by the appearance of the 
stranger. Tell Martha to light a fire in the spare room. 
But you must amuse her yourselves, you and Anne; your 
father must not be troubled with a visitor in the house. 

K ^ Oh, she will not be like a visitor, she will be like one 
of ourselves,^ ^ said Ally. 

The father, however, observed the little fair curled head 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


207 


Rt the dra^^ng-room window as he drove up, and it annoyed 
him. A stranger among them was like a spy at such a 
moment. The girls were at the window, and Walter, new- 
ly returned, had been standing at the gate, and Mrs. .Pen- 
ton was at the door. He jumped down, scarcely noticing 
the anxious look - of inquiry with which she met him, and 
stopped on the step to take a sovereign from his waistcoat- 
pocket, which he handed to the groom who had driven him. 

Thank you. Sir Edward, said the man, touching his 
hat with great obsequiousness. 

^^Sir Edward!'^ and a sovereign! The two things to- 

f ether set Mrs. Penton^s heart beating as it scarcely ever 
ad beat before. She did not understand it for the mo- 
ment. Sir Ed ward and a sovereign! This perhaps 
was the most impressive incident of all. 

Then he took her by the arm without a word of explan- 
ation. Come with me into the book-room, Anne.^^ He 
had not a word even for little Molly, who came fluttering 
like a little bird across the hall and embraced his leg, and 
cried, Fader, fader in that little sweet twitter of a 
voice which was generally music to his ears. 

Take her away,^^ was all he said, with a hasty pat of 
her little shining head. His face was as grave as if the 
profoundest trouble had come upon him, and wore that 
vague air of resentment which was natural to him. Fate 
or Fortune or Providence, however you like to call it, had 
been doing something to Edward Penton again. As a mat- 
ter of course, it was always doing something to him — cross- 
ing his plans, setting them all wrong, paying no attention 
to his feelings. There was no conscious profanity in this 
thought, nor did the good man even suppose that he was 
arraigning the Supreme Disposer of all events. He felt 
this sincerely, with a sense of injury which was half comic, 
half tragic. Mrs. Penton was used to it, and used to being 
upbraided for it, as if she had somehow a secret influence, 
and if she pleased might have arrested the decisions of fate. 

Well, Edward?^^ she said, breathless, as he closed the 
book-room door. 

Well,^^ he replied. The fire was low, and he took up 
the poker violently in the first place and poked and raked 
till he made an end of it altogether. I think,^^ he said, 
after being out all the morning, I might at least find a 
decent fire.^^ ^ 


208 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


1^11 make it up in a moment, Edward. A little wood 
will make it all right. 

A little wood! and you’ll have to ring the bell for it,, 
and have half a dozen people running and the whole house 
disturbed, just when I have so much to .say to you! No,, 
better freeze than that. ” He turned his back to the fire, 
which, after all, was not quite without warmth, and addesd, 
after a moment, not looking at her, contracting his brows, 
and with a sort of belligerent shiver to let her see that he 
was cold, and that it was her fault. My uncle is dead.”^ 

‘‘ Is it all over, Edward? I fancied that it must be soon;’" 
and then she added, with a little timidity, “ were you in 
time?” ' 

“ In time! I was therefor hours.” He knew very w^ell 
what she meant, but it was a sort of 23lcasure to him to pro- 
long the suspense. “Of course,” he said, slowly, “he 
could ndt be expected to recover at his age. Alicia should 
have known better than to have had — dances and things at 
his age.” 

“ Dances! I have had no time to speak to Ally. I 
didn’t know; oh, how dreadful, Edw^ard, and the old man 
dying!” 

“The old man wasn’t dying then,” he said, pettishly. 
“ How were they to suppose he was going to die? He has 
often been a great deal w^orse. He w^as an old man who 
looked as if he might have lived forever.” 

After this his \yife made no remark, but furtively — her 
housewifely instincts not permitting her to see it go out be- 
fore her eyes — stooped to the coal-box standing by to put 
something on the fire. 

“ Let it alone!” he said, angrily. “ At such a moment 
to be poking among the coals! Do you know what has 
happened? Can’t you realize it a little? Here we have 
Pen ton on our liands — Pehton! That place to be furnished, 
fitted out, and lived in! How are we to do it? I am in 
such a perplexity I think as never man was. And instead 
of helping me, all your thoughts are taken up with mend- 
ing the fire!” 

Mrs. Penton sat down suddenly in the first chair. She 
put her hand upon her heart, which had begun to jump. 

“ Then you were not in time? Oh, I thought so from the 
first. To go on wasting day after day, and he such an old 
man!” * 


A POOK GENTLEMAX. 


209 - 


And in the extreme excitement of the moment she be^aii 
to cry a little, holding her hand upon her fluttering heart: 
‘‘It was what I always feared: when there is a thing that 
is troublesome and difficult, that is always the thing that 
happens, she cried. 

Her husband did not make any immediate reply, He 
wheeled round in his turn and took up the poker, but pres- 
ently threw it down again. ‘‘ It is no use making a fuss 
over that now. It’s that fellow Rochf or t’s fault. By the 
way,” he said, turning round again sharply, mind, 
Annie, I won’t have that young fellow coming here, so 
much. It might not have mattered before, but now it’s 
out of character — entirely out of character. Mind what I 
say.” 

Mrs. Penton took no notice of this. She went on with a 
little murmur of her own: No, it is of no use making a 
fuss. We can’t undo it now. To think it might have 
been settled yesterday, or any day! and nowit never can 
be settled whatever we may do.” 

I don’t know what you mean by settled, ” he said, 
hastily; nothing can be more settled; it is as clear as day- 
light: not that there could be any doubt at any time. The 
thing we’ve got to think of is what we are to do. ” 

“ With all the children,” said Mrs. Penton, and that 
great empty house, and no ready money or anything. Oh, 
Edward, how can I tell what we are to do? It has been 
before me for years. And then I thought when your cous- 
in spoke that all was going to be right.” 

There’s no use speaking of that now.” 

No, I don’t suppose there’s any use. Still, when one 
thinks — which of course I can’t help doing; when your 
cousin came I thought it was all right. Though you never 
would listen to me, I knew that you would listen to her. 
And now here it is again just as if that had never been!” 

It was, perhaps, not generous of Mrs. Penton to indulge 
in these regrets, but it was expecting from her something 
more than humanity is capable of, to suppose that she 
would instantly turn into a consoler, and forget that she 
had ever prophesied woe. That is very well for an ideal 
heroine, a sweet young wife who is of the order of the em- 
bodied ansrel. But Mrs. Penton was the mother of a large 
family, and she had other things to think of than merely 
keeping her husband in a tranquillity which joerhaps he did 


^10 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 


iiofc desire. When there are so many interests involyed^ it 
is not easy for a woman to behave ^ in this angelic way. 
Perhaps her husband did not expect it from her. He stood 
leaning his back upon the mantel-piece with a countenance 
which had relapsed into its usual half-resentful quiet. He 
was not angry nor surprised, nor did he look as if he were 
paying much attention. It gave him a little time to collect 
his own thoughts while she got her little plaint and irre- 
strainable reflections over. Sympathy is in this as much as 
in other more demonstrative ways. If she had got over it 
in a moment without any expression of feeling, he would 
probably have been shocked, and felt that nothing mattered 
to her; but he got calm, while she, too, had her little 
grumble and complaint against fate. 

^‘^The thing,^^ he said, “ now, is to think what we must 
do. I shahi’t hurry the Russell Pentons; they can take^ 
their time; and in the meantime we must look about us. 
The thing is there will be no rents coming in till Lady-day, 
and it^s only Christmas. I never thought I should have 
seen it in this light. To succeed to Pen ton seemed always 
the thing to look forward to. It is you that have put it in 
this light. 

What other light could I put it in, Edward? Penton 
is very different from this, and we have never been much 
at our ease here. I was always frightened for what would 
happen when you began to realize — But, dear me,'’^ she 
added, what is the use of talking? We must just make 
the best of it. Nothing is quite so bad as it seems likely 
to be. With prudence and taking care, perhaps, after all, 
we may do — 

Do!^^ he said, to go to Penton, the great house of the 
family, and to be the head of the family, and to have noth- 
ing better before one than a hope that we shall be able to 
do — And then there was a pause between this careful 
and troubled pair; and of all things in the world, any 
stranger who had seen them, w^ould have imagined last of 
all that they had succeeded to a great inheritance, and that 
the man at least had attained to what had been his hope 
» and dream for years. 

Well,"' she said at last, I canT do you any good, 
Edward, and the bell for dinner will be ringing directly. 
You must have had an agitating morning, and I dare say 


A POOE GEXTLEMAX. 


211 


eat no breakfast, and you will be the better for your din- 
ner. I suppose we ought to draw down all the blinds/^ 

‘‘ Why should you draw down the blinds? There is not 
too much light. 

I should not like/^ said Mrs. Penton, to be wanting 
in any mark of respect. And after all, Sir Walter was 
your nearest relation, and you are his successor, so that it 
is really a death in the family. 

She walked to the window as she spoke, and began to 
draw down the blind. He followed her hastily, and 
stopped her with an impatient hand. 

‘‘ My windows look into the garden. Who is coming 
into the garden to see whether we pay respect or not? 1 
wonT have it anywhere. On the funeral day if you please, 
but no more. I wonT have itl^^ It did him a little good 
to have an object for his irritation. She turned round 
upon him with some surprise, feeling the imperative grasp 
of his hand upon her arm. Perhaps that close encounter 
and her startled look affected him; perhaps only the dis- 
turbed state in which he was, with all emotions close to the 
surface. He put his other hand upon her further shoulder, 
and held her for a moment, looking at her. ‘‘ My dear,^^ 
he said, “ do you know you’re Lady Penton now?” 

She gave him another look, full of surprise and almost 
consternation. 

I never thought of that,” she said. 

1^0, 1 never supposed you did — but so it is. There has 
not been a Lady Penton for thirty years. There couldn’t 
be a better one,” he said, with a little emotion, kissing 
her on the forehead. The look, the caress, the little 
solemnity of the announcement overcame her. Lady Pen- 
ton! How could she ever accustom herself to that name, 
or think it was she who was meant by it? It drove other 
matters for the moment out of her head. And then the 
bell rang for dinner — the solid family meal in the middle 
of the day, which had suited all the habits of the family at 
Penton Hook. Already it seemed to be out of place. She 
dried her eyes with a tremulous, half-apologetic hand, and 
said. 

You know, Edward, the children — must always have 
their dinner at this hour.” 

‘‘To be sure,” he replied. “ I never supposed there 
could be any change in that respect.” 


212 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


And you must want some food/^ she said, and a 
little comfort ^ ^ — then as she went before him to the door, 
she paused with a little hesitation, you know they brought 
a. little girl with them, a niece of Eussell Pentoii^s? It is a 
pity to have a stranger to-day, but they could not help it. 

Ko, I doiPt suppose they could help it,^^ said Sir Ed- 
v/ard. Neither he nor she knew anything more of their 
visitor than that she was a little girl, Eussell Penton^s 
niece. 

They all met round the table in the usual way, but yet 
in a way which was not at all usual. The father and moth- 
er came in arm-in-arm, 'after the children had gathered in 
the dining-room — that is to say, he had taken her arm, 
placing his hand within it, and pushing her in a little be- 
lore him into the room. The little children had clambered 
into their high chairs, and little Molly sat at the lower end, 
which was her usual place, close to her father^s chair, 
flourishing a spoon in the air, and singing her little song 
of Fader, fader Molly was always the one that called 
him to dinner when he was busy, and thus the cry of 

fader had become associated with dinner in her small 
mind. The elder ones stood about waiting for their par- 
ents, Mab between Ally and Anne, looking curiously on at 
all the manners and customs of this new country in which 
she found herself — the unknown habits of a large family, 
who were not rich — all of which particulars were wonderful 
in her eyes. Walter, as his mother at once saw, bore a 
strange aspect — abstracted and far-away — as if his mind 
were full of anything in the world except the scene around 
him. Perhaps it was fatigue, for the poor boy had been 
up all night; jDerhaps the crisis, Mhicli was so extraordi- 
nary, and which contradicted everything they had been 
planning and thinking of. The elder children were all 
grave, disturbed, a little overawed by all that was coming 
to pass. And for some time there was scarcely anything 
said. The little bustle of carving, of serving the children, 
of keeping them all in order, soon absorbed the mother as 
if it had been an ordinary day; but at the other end of the 
table, neither Ally, looking at him with anxious eyes on the 
one side, nor Molly on the other, got much attention from 
their father, who was occupied by such different thoughts. 
Mab was the only one who was free of all arriere ])ensk, 
She had scarcely known Sir ^Y alter; how could she be over- 


A rOOJl CE^sTLEMAX. 


XU3 

whelmed b}^ his death? and it made no difference to her: 
whereas this plunge into novelty and the undiscovered, was 
more wonderful to her than anything she liad ever known. 
She watched the children and all their ways — the little 
clamor of one, the steady perseverance of another, the 
watchful way in which Horry devoured and kept the lead, 
observing lest any of the brotherhood should get befoi^e him 
he worked through his meal — with delighted interest. 
^’Are they always like that she whispered to Anne. 
Do you remember all their names? Do they all always 
cat as* much? Oh, the little pigs, what darlings they arel^"" 
cried Mab under her breath. 

Anne did not like to hear the children called little pigs, 
even though the other word was added. 

They donT eat any more than other children,^^ she 
said. And Anne, too, if she was not anxious, was at least 
very curious and eager to hear all that had happened, which 
only father knew. And father ^s brow was full of care. 
They all turned it over in their minds in their different 
fashions, and asked each other what could possibly have 
happened worse than had been expected; for already ex- 
perience had made even these young creatures feel that 
something worse happening was the most likely, a great 
deal more probable, than that there was something better. 
The mother was the most fortunate, who divided and 
arranged everything, and had to make allowances for 
Horry ^s third help when she first put a spoon into the pud- 
ding, a matter of severe and-abstruse calculation which left 
little space in the thoughts for lesser things. 

When dinner was over, the children all rushed out with 
that superflidty of spirits which is naturally produced by a 
full meal — but also a little quarrelsome as well, making a 
great noise in the hall, and requiring a great deal of man- 
agement before they could be diverted into the natural 
channels in which human energy between the ages of twelve 
and two has to dissipate itself in the difficult moment of 
the afternoon. When the weather was good they all 
scampered out into the garden, where indeed Horry and 
his brothers rushed now with the shouts of the well-fed 
and self-satisfied. To recover these rebels on one hand, 
and to get the little tumult of smaller children dancing 
about in all the passages dispersed and quiet, was a piece 
of work which employed all the energies of the ladies. 


214 


A POOK GENTLEMAi^. 


Mab Eiissell looked on admiring in the midst of that little 
rabble. She would have liked, above all things, to head an 
insurrection and besiege the mother and sisters in their own 
stronghold. She went so far as to hold out her skirts over 
Horry, who took refuge behind her, seeing the face of an 
ally where he expected it least. They were all anxious to 
get the riot over, but Mab, who knew no better, interrupted 
the course of justice. Oh, how awkward it is to have a 
stranger in the house when the family affairs are trembling 
in the balance, and no one knows what is going to happen! 
This was what Ally and Anne said to each other, almost 
weeping over that contrariety .of fortune, when they were 
compelled, instead of hearing all about it, to go round the 
grounds with Mab and show how high the water had come 
up last year. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

NEW PLANS. 

Notwithstanding all the hinderances that envious fate 
could send, the news so important to the family got itself 
circulated among them at last, with the result that the 
strangest excitement, elation, and despondency, a compli- 
cation of feelings utterly unknown in their healthful his- 
tory, took possessoin of the Penton family. They had made 
up their minds to one thing — they nuw found themselves 
and all their projects and plans swallowed up in another. 
They had adapted themselves, the young ones with the 
flexibility of youth, to the supposed change in thek fort- 
unes. They had now to go back again, to forget all those 
innumerable consultations, arrangements, conclusions of 
all kinds, and take up their old plans where they had been 
abandoned. It had been dreadful to give up Penton. It- 
Avas scarcely more agreeable to take it back again. And 
yet an elation, an elevation was in all their minds. Penton 
was theirs, that palace of the gods. They were no longer 
nobodies, they were people of importance. The girls found 
it beyond measure uncomfortable, distracting, insupporta- 
'ble, that on this day of all others, when they had a thou- 
sand things to say to each other — questions to ask, sugges- 
tions to make, the most amazing revolution to talk over, 
there should be a stranger always between them, one whom,. 


A POOR GENTLE'rAX. 


215 


with that civility which was born with them, and in which 
they had been trained, they felt themselves constrained to 
explain everything to, whom they would not leave out of 
their conversation or permit to feel that she was an in- 
truder. She was an intruder all the same. She was in the 
way, horribly in the way, at this eventful moment. The 
family was dissolved by her presence. The father and 
mother retired together to the book-room to talk there, a 
thing they never would have done but for the stranger.' 
And Walter strolled off on his side, scarcely saying a word 
to his sisters, whom he could not approach or communicate 
his sentiments to in consequence of Mab. It was a heavy 
task to the two girls to have to entertain her, to go round 
and round the garden with her, to point out the views of 
Penton, to explain to her what it was about, when one or 
another would burst out into some irrestrainable exclama- 
tion or remark; but the fate of womankind in general was 
upon these devoted young women. They had to entertain 
the visitor, to occupy themselves with the keeping up of 
appearances, and to put everything that interested them 
most aside in their hearts. 

We put this seat here because it is the best view of 
Penton. Ko, it isiiT very shady in summer, it is a little 
exposed to the wind, but then Penton — 

^ We used to be so much interested in every view. Is 
this the best, or the one from the top of the hillr^^ 

‘‘ Oh, the one on the top of the hill. Oh, I wish Penton 
was at the bottom of the sea!^^ 

I doiiT,^^ cried Anne. After all it is only the con- 
fusion with having changed our minds. It is so much bet- 
ter not to change one^s mind, that lets so many new 
thoughts come in.^^ 

And most likely the old thoughts were the best,^^ said 
Ally, softly, with a little sigh. Then she added, You 
must tliink us so strange: but it is only just to-day, for we 
are all excited and put out.^^ 

One would think you did not like coming into your 
fortune,^’ said Mab. Is it because of old Sir Walter? 
But Aunt Gerald said you scarcely knew him.^^ 

We never saw him: but it is terrible to think of being 
better off because some one has died — 

“ And it is more than that. It is because we thought 
we were to give it all up, and now it seems it is all ours — 


210 


A POOR GExNTTLEMAX. 


'^Ancl we were always brought up to think so very much 
of it/^ Ally said. And then she added, Shouldn't you 
like to come round and see where the children have their 
gardens? it is quite high and dry, it is beyond the highest 
mark. No flood has ever come up here.^^ 

This was the supreme distinction of the terrace and that 
part of the garden that lay beyond it. They were quite 
proud, to point out its immunity from the floods: as they 
passed they had a glimjDse through the windows of the 
book-room of Mr. and Mrs. — nay, of Sir Edward and Lady 
Penton, sitting together, he with a pencil in his hand jot- 
ting down something upon a piece of j^aper, she apparently 
reckoning up upon the ou tstretched fingers of her hand. Ally 
and Anne looked at each other; they would all have been deep 
in these calculations together if Mab had not been there. 

Walter went upon his own way. Perhaps had the visitor 
been a man he might have had the same confinement, the 
same embarrassment: but probably he would have under- 
taken nothing of the sort. Probably he would have thrown 
over his guest upon the girls. What were girls good for 
but to undertake this sort of thing, and set more important 
persons free: For himself he did not feel able for anything' 
but to realize the new position; to turn everything over in 
his mind, to hurry away to the neighborhood, at least, of 
the one creature in the world who (he thought) might look 
at it from his point of view and care what he felt, Gould 
he still think, after the reception she had given him that 
morning, after the blank which he had found in her, the 
incapacity to understand him — could he believe still that 
his tumultuous feelings nowand all the ferment in his 
mind would awaken in her that ideal sympathy and uiider- 
standing of which he had dreamed? Alas, poor Walter! 
he knew so little in reality of her: what he knew was his 
own imagination of her — a perfect thing, incapable of fail- 
ure, sure to sympathize and console. What he had learned 
from the failure of the morning was only this, that it must 
have been his fault, who had not known how to explain— 
how to make his story clear. It was not she who was to 
blame. He rushed up the hill with his heart a-tiame, 
thinking of everything. He was now no disinherited 
knight, no neglected youth whose fate his elders decided 
without consulting him. Oh, no; very different. He was 
the h^ir of Penton! He had attained wdiat he liad looked 


A POOK GENTLllMAN'. 


2L7 


for all his life. He stood trembling upon the verge of a 
new existence^, full of the tumultuous projects, the un- 
formed resolves that surge upward and boil in the mind of 
a youth emancipated, whose life has come to such promo- 
tion, whose career lies all before him. And to what creat- 
ure in the world after himself could this be of the same im- 
portance. as to her who might — oh, wonderful thought! — 
share it with him? He had been far from having this 
thought ill the morning. Then he was but a boy, without 
any definite plan, with only education before him and vague 
beginnings, and no certainty of anything. ISTow he was 
Walter Fenton of Fenton, with a positiDii which no man 
could take from him — ^not his father even! ISTobody could 
touch him in his rights. Not an acre could be alienated 
without his consent; nothing could be taken away. And 
then there was that story about providing for the boy 
which his father ha‘d touched on very lightly, but which 
came back in the strongest sense to the mind of the boy 
who was to be provided for. He felt the wildest impatience 
to tell her all this. She would understand him now. She 
did not know what he meant in the morning, which was, 
no doubt, his fault. How could she be expected to under- 
stand the fantastic discontent that was in his mind?' But 
she would understand now. He had a certainty of this, 
which was beyond all possibility of mistake, and though he 
knew that it was very unlikely he should see her at this 
hour, yet the impulse of his heart was such that nothing 
else was possible to him but to hurry to the spot wdiere she 
was — to be near her, to put himself in the way if perchance 
she should pass by. The painful impression with which in 
the morning he had^ seen her in a moment change herself 
and her aspect, and step down from the position on which 
she met him to that of Crockford^s niece, passed altogether 
-from his mind; — or rather it remained as a keen stimulant 
forcing him to a solution of the mystery which intertwined 
the harmony with a discord as is the wont of musicians. 
There could not be any such jarring note. He must ac- 
count for the jarring note; it was a tone of enchantment the 
more, a charm disguised. 

These were the things he said to himself — or ratlier he 
said nothing to himself, but such were the gleams that flew 
across his mind like glimmers of light out of the sky. He 
went quickly up the steep hill, breasting it as if his fortune 


218 


A POOR GEA'TLEMAX. 


lay at the top, and a moment^s delay might risk it all — un- 
til he came within sight of Crockford^s cottage, its upper 
Avindows twinkling over the rugged bit of hedge that fenced 
olf the little grass-plot in front. Then his pace slackened 
— the goal was in sight; there was no need for haste — in 
short, even had she been visible, Walter would have dallied, 
with that fantastic instinct of the lover which prolongs by 
deferring the moment of enjoyment. And then at a little 
distance he could examine the windows, he could watch for 
some sign or token of her, as he could not do near at hand. 
He lingered, he stood still on a pretense of looking at the 
hedge-rows, of examining a piece of lichen on a tree, his 
eyes all the time furtively turning toward that rude little 
temple of his soul. What a place to be called by such a 
name! And yet the place was not so much to be found 
fault with. The hedge was irregular and broken, raised a 
little r bove the path, with a rough little bit of wall, all 
ferns and mosses, supporting the bank of earth from which 
it grew; above it, glistening in the low red rays of the after- 
noon sun, were the lattice Avindows of the upper story, with 
the eaves of an uneven roof — old tiles covered with every 
kind of growth — overshadowing them; a cottage as unlike 
as possible to those dreadful dwellings of the poor which 
are the result of sanitary science and economy combined; 
a little human habitation harmonized by age and use with 
all its surroundings, and which no one need, be ashamed to 
call home. So Walter said to himself as he stood and 
looked at it in the light of romance and the afternoon sun^ 
It was as venerable as Pen ton itself, and had many features 
in common with the great house. It Avas more respectable 
and more lovely than the damp gentility of Penton Hook,, 
which was old-new, with plaster peeling off, and a shabby 
modernism in its vulgar walls. Crockford^s cottage pre- 
tended to nothing, it was all it meant to be. It was in its 
Avay a beautiful place, being so harmonized by nature, so 
well adapted to its uses. Walter’s estimate of it increased 
as the moments Avent on. He felt at last that to bring his 
bride from such an abode Avas next door to bringing her 
from an ideal palace of romance; perhaps better even than 
that, seeing that there Avould be all the pleasure of setting 
her in the sphere which she would adorn; for would not 
she adorn — it was an old-fashioned phrase, yet one that 
suited the occasion — any sphere? 


A POOR GE^sTLEMAN. 


219 


He was interrupted in these thoughts by the sound of 
steps approaching. All was silent, alas! in the cottage. 
The door was shut, for it was very cold weather, and no 
one appeared at a window; there was not a movement of 
life about. Walter knew that the room in which they lived 
(/. e, the kitchen) -looked to the back. The approaching 
passenger, therefore, did not convey any hopes to his mind, 
but only annoyed him, making him leave off that silent 
contemplation of the shrine of his love, which he had 
elaborately concealed, by a pretended examination of the 
lichens on the tree. If any one was coming, that pretense, 
he felt, was not enough, and he accordingly continued his 
walk very slowly up the hill in order to meet the new-comer 
whoever he might be. When he came in sight he was not, 
as Walter had expected, a recognizable figure, but unmis- 
takably a stranger — a man whose dress and appearance 
were as unlike as possible to anything which belong'd to 
the village. He was a young man, rather undersized, in a 
coat with a fur collar, a tall hat, a muffler of a bright 
•color, a large cigar, and a stick of the newest fashion. He 
was indeed all of the newest fashion, fit for Bond Street, 
and much more like that locality than a village street. 
Walter was not very learned in Bond Street, but he laughed 
to himself as he made this conclusion, feeling that Bond 
Street would not acknowledge such a glass of fashion. The 
stranger was looking at Crockford^s cottage with a glass 
stuck in his eye, and a sort of contemptuous examination, 
which proved that he made a very dilferent estimate of it 
from thafc which Walter had Just done. When he in his 
turn heard Walter^s step upon the road, he seemed to wake 
up to the consciousness of being looked at, in a way which 
aroused the contempt of the young native. He gave him- 
self various little pulls together, took his cigar from his 
mouth with an energetic puff, put up his disengaged hand 
to his cravat with an involuntary movement to arrange 
something, and settled his shoulders into his coat — gestures 
corres23onding to the little shake and shuffle with which 
some women prepare themselves to be seen, however elabor- 
ate their toilet may have been before. Then he quickened 
his steps a little to meet Walter, who came toward him 
very slowly, with a quite uncalled-for sentiment of con- 
tempt. VVhy should a youth in knickerbockers, in the 
rough roads of his native parish, feel himself superior to a 


220 


A POOR GE^^TLEMAi^. 


geiitleinan visitor in the apparel of the higher orders, com- 
ing (presumably) out of Bond Street? Who can explain 
this mystery? No doubt it was balanced by a still stronger 
feeling of the same kind on the other side. The stranger 
came forward evidently with the intention of asking in- 
formation. He was a sandy-haired and rather florid young 
man, with a badly grown mustache and little tufts of color- 
less beard. His hat was a little on one side, and the hair 
upon which it was poised glistened and shone. The level 
sun came in his eyes and made him blink; it threw a light 
which was not flattering over all his imperfections of color 
and form. 

Beg your pardon,'^ he said, with a slight stammer as 
they approached each other, you couldnT tell me, could 
you, where one — Crockton or Croaker, or some such name, 
lives about here?''^ 

Croaker?^^ said Walter. With Crockford^s cottage be- 
fore his eyes, what could be more simple? The suggestion 
was too evident to be mistaken, as was also the other sug- 
gestion, which came like a flash of lightning, and made his 
eyes shine with angry fire. I know nobody of the 
name,^^ he said, quietly, making a rapid step forward; and 
then it occurred to him that the information thus sought 
might be supplied easily by any uninterested passer-by, and 
he paused, feeling that it was necessary to plant himself 
there on the defense. What sort of a man do you want? 
What is heV'^ he asked. 

Ah, no sort of a man at all — it^s— it^s a cottage, I be- 
lieve. He may be a cobbler or a plow-boy, or a — anything 
you please. Ami the sort of person to know such people’s 
trades? It’s a — ^it’s a — Look here, ITl make it worth 
yoiir while if you’ll help me. It’s a lady I want.” 

Oh, a lady!” said Walter. He felt the blood flush to- 
his face; but this the inquirer, occupied with his own busi- 
ness, did not remark. He came close, turning olf the 
smoke of his cigar with his hand. 

‘‘ Look here,” he said, in a loud whisper, I’ll make it 
worth your while. It’ll be as good as a suv — , well, I may 
say if you’ll really find out what I want, as good as a fiver 
in your pocket. Oh, I say, what’s the matter? I don’t 
mean no harm. ” 

I wonder who you take me for,” cried Walter, whose 


A POOR OENTLEMAN^. 


221 


sudden niove forward had thrown the other back in mingled 
astonishment and alarm. 

The stranger eyed him from head to foot with a puzzled 
look, which finally awoke a little amusement in W alter’s 
angry soul. DonT know you from Adam/’ he said, 

and I ain’t used to fellows in knickerbockers. Swells 
wear them, and gamekeepers wear them. If you’re a swell 
I beg your pardon, that’s all I can say.” 

This prayer it pleased Vv alter graciously to grant. He 
began to enter into the humor of the^ situation. And then, 
to save her from some vulgar persecutor, was not that 
worth a little trouble.^ Never mind,” he said, ‘‘ who I 
am. I know all the ladies that live here. Which of them 
is it that you want:” 

‘‘ Well, she don’t live here,” said the other. Yes, to 
be sure, she’s here for the moment, with one Croaker, or 
something like that. But she’s not one of the ladies of the 
place; she’s not, perhaps, exactly what you would call a — 
Yes, she is though — she’s awfully well educated. She 
talks — oh, a great deal better than most of the swellest 
people you meet about. I’ve met a good few in my day,” 
he said, with an air, caressing his mustache. I don’t 
know nobody that comes up to her, for my part.” 

He was a little beast — he was a cad — he was a vulgar 
little beggar: he was not a gentleman, nor anything like it. 
But still he seemed to have a certain comprehension. Wal- 
ter’s heart softened to him in spite of all provocations. I 
don’t think,” he said, but more gently than he could have 
thought possible, ‘‘ that you will meet any one of that sort 
here. ” 

No? you don’t think so. But they’d keep her very 
close, don’t you see. Fact is, she was sent off to keep hei 
out of a young fellar’s way. A young swell you know, a — 
a friend of mine, with a good bit of money coming to him, 
and his people didn’t think her good enough. Oh, I don’t 
think so — not a bit. I’m all on the true love side. But 
where there’s money, don’t you know, there’s always diffi- 
culties made. ” 

I suppose so,” said Walter, with momentary gravity. 
And there came before him for a moment a horrible realiza- 
tion — something he had never thought of before. “ But I 
don’t think,” he added, that you will find any such lady 
here.” He was so young and simple that it was a certain 




222 


A POOE GEXTLEMAls^ 


ease to his conscience to put it in this way. He said to 
himself that he was telling no lie. He was not saying that 
there was no such lady here, only that he didn^t think the 
other would find her^ — which he shouldn't, at least so long 
as Walter could help it. This little equivocation gave great 
comfort and ease to his mind. 

DonT you, thought ^ said the stranger, discouraged. 

But Pm almost sure this was the village, near the river, 
and not far from — it answers to all the directions — if only 
I could find Croaker— or Crockton, or a name like that. 
Pm a dreadful fellow for muddling names. 

‘‘IT! tell you what, said Walter, it may be Ends- 
leigii, about two miles further on; thaPs near the. river, 
and not far from Beading, which I suppose is what you 
mean — a pretty little village where people go in summer. 
And, to be sure, there^s some people named Croaker there; 
I remember the name — over a shop — with lodgings to let — 
that^s the ]3lace,^^ he cried, with a little excitement. For 
all this was quite true, and yet elaborately false in inten- 
tion, a combination to delight any such young deceiver. 

Come along, he cried, Pll show you the way. It 
lies straight before you, and Croaker^s is just as you go into 
the village. You caiiT miss it. Pve earned that fiver,^^ 
he said, with a laugh, but you Te welcome to the informa- 
tion — for love. 

For love!^^ cried the other; and he gave the young fel- 
low a very doubtful look, then threw a suspicious glance 
around as if he might possibly find some reasons lying about 
on the road why this young stranger should attempt to de- 
ceive him. But after all, why should a J^oung swell in 
knickerbockers desire to deceive the man of Bond Street? 
There could be no reason. He took out his cigar-case, and 
offered a large and solid article of that description to Wal- 
ter’s acceptance, who took it with great gravity. I can’t 
thank you any way else — they’re prime ones I can tell 
you,” lie said, and with a fiourish of his stick, by way of 
farew'ell, took the way pointed out to him. Walter stood 
and watched him with a curious mingling of satisfaction 
and mischief. He threiv the cigar into the ditch. It w’as 
a bad one, he had no doubt, wdiich, perhaps, made it less 
a sacrifice to throw" aw^ay this rew'ard of guile. 


A POOK GEXTLli:MA25‘. 


22c 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 

A DECISIVE MO:ME]SrT. 

But when this little adventure was ovei% it made no dif- 
ference to the longing and eagerness in the boy^s heart. 
Indeed^ he wanted to see her more than ever, to find out 
from her who this fellow was, what he had to do with her, 
why he was seeking her. Could it be possible that she felt 
any interest in such a creature? that she — might have 
married him, perhaps. Could this be: He had spoken as 
if it was he wEo had been the prize. She had been sent 
away in order not to be a danger for him. Walter snapped 
the branch of a tree he had seized hold of as if it had been 
a twig, as the thought passed through his mind. And then 
he was seized with a half-hysterical fit of laughter. Him, 
that fellow I that little beast! that cad! that — There were 
no words that could express his contempt and scorn' and 
merriment, but it was not merriment of a comfortable kind. 
When his laugh was oyer, he went round and round the 
house without seeing any one — all was closed, the doors 
shut, nobody at the windows, nothing at all stirring. One 
or two people passed, and looked wondering to see him 
wander about, up and down like a ghost; but he neither 
saw her nor any trace of her. The red glitter went out of 
the windows, the sun sunk lower and lower, and then went 
out, leaving nothing but the winter gray which so soon set- 
tled toward night. And by and by W alter found himself 
compelled by the force of circumstances to turn his back 
upon the cottage, and go down the steep road again toward 
home. The force of circumstances at this particular mo- 
ment meant the family tea — and the strange, tragical, fool- 
ish complication of his own high romance and enthusiasm 
of love, for which he was ready to defy anything — and 
the youthf Illness and childishness of - his position, which 
made it criminal for him not to be in for tea — was one of 
those things which confuse with ridicule all that is most 
serious in the world. He saw with an acute pang how 
absurd it was; but he could not emancipate himself. The 
thought of the family consternation, the question on all 
sides. Where is Wat? his father^s irritation, and his moth- 


224 


A VOOli GENTLEMAN. 


er’s wonder, and the apologies of the girls, and the sugges- 
tions of accident, of some catastrophe, something terrible 
to account for his non-appearance, were all quite visible and 
apparent to him; and the grotesque incompatibility of these 
bonds, with the passionate indulgence of his own will and 
wish upon which his mind was fixed. He saw all these cir- 
cumstances also with a curious faculty, half of sympathy, 
half of repulsion, through the eyes of the little visitor, the 
little intruder, the girl who had suddenly become a member 
of the household, and who was there observing everything. 
She would remark the unwillingness with which he ap- 
peared, and she would remark, he felt certain, his absence 
both before and after, and would ask herself where he 
went, a question which, so far as Walter was aware, 
even his mother had begun to ask as yet. He had an 
stinctive conviction that Mab would ask it, that she wai!''^ 
see through him, that she would divine what was in his 
heart. And when they all met about the homely table oir^ 
more, the children intent upon their bread and but. 
mother apportioning all the cups of tea, the milk-and- 
to some, the portions of cake — Walter seemed to himself 
be taking part in some scene of a comedy curiously int^ 
posed betw^een the acts of an exciting drama. A cold woi.<( , 
out of doors, spreading all around, with the strango:. 
counters in it, with understandings and mis understand iiy 
which made the blood run cold, and sent the heart 
bounding into high passion and excitement, into feverisix 
resolve and wild daring, and the madness of desperation — 
and in the very midst a sudden pause, the opening of . 
door, and then the confused chatter of the child I’en, the 
sound of the teacups, the lamp which smelled of paraffi?) 
the bread and butter — how laughable it was, how nuiv" 
Ions, what a contrast, what a slavery, how petty in i 
midst of all the passions and agitations that lay around . 
Presently, Walter, in his boyish ingenuousness, be^an r 
feel a little proud that he, so simple as he sat there ' 
fumes of the household tea, was in reality a distractec- 
well-nigh triumphant lover, meaning to put his fo^’ 
the touch that very night, to pledge his new life and 
might bring. They thought him nothing more than a I 
to be sent to school again, to be guided at their will, wlr 
lie was a man and on the eve of an all-important decic- 
about to dispose of his existence. He caught Mab’s eyes * 


A POOE GEKTLEjIAI^'. 


225 


this thoii2:ht swelled in his mind. They were not penetrat- 
ing or keen eyes; they were blue^ very soft, smiling, child- 
like, lighted up with amused observation, noticing every- 
thing. But Walter felt them go through him as none of 
the other accustomed familiar eyes did. She saw there 
was something more than usual about him. She would 
divine when he disappeared that his going away meant 
samething. The family took no heed of his absence: he 
had gone out to take a turn, they would say: perhaps his 
father would grumble that he ought to be at his books. 
But only that little stranger would divine that Walter^s ab- 
sence meant a great deal more — that it meant a romance, 
■fi poeili; a drama, and that it consumed his entire life, 
p The dis2:)ersing of the children, the game of play per- 
'■iniitted to Horry and the small brothers, the going to bed 
- <)f the rest, made a moment of tumult and agitation. And 
' Tiv tlib midst of this AValter stole out un perceived into the 
"l- air of the night. It was clear as a crystal, the sky 
^imiing, almost crackling with a sudden frost, the stars 
-twinkling out of their profound blue, with such a sharp 
‘and Icy brilliancy as occurs only now and then in the liard- 
' 4 i’st ' ’’winter. The air was so clear and exhilarating that 
>\ after did not find it cold; indeed he was too much excited 
' "to-be sensible of anything save the refreshment and keen 
. '’estorative j^incli of that nipping and eager atmosphere. 

he hurried up the hill the blood ran riot in his veins, 
' Ms heart seemed to bound and leap forward as if it had an 
independent life. He.«Jound himself under the hedge of 
Orockford^s cottage in a few minutes, with the feeling that 
flown or floated there, though his panting breath 
told' of the rush he had actually made. The moon, wMch 
%ad but newly risen, was behind the cottage, and conse- 
• quently all was black under the hedge, concealing him in 
•’^he profoundest darkness. He was glad to pause there in 
n^t covert and ante-chamber of nature to regain command 
'%imself, to get his breath and collect his thoughts — to 
I *^^>how he was to make his presence known. She had 
' fe*tVmehow divined that he was there on other nights, but 
"this was a more important occasion, and he felt that he 
‘^would be justified in defying all the restrictions put upon 
Min, and letting even the Crockfords, the old people of the 
' house, know that he was there. It was true that the idea 
' old Crockford daunted him a little. The old man had 

2-2d iKiir-. 


226 A POOR GENTLEMAK. 

a way of saying things; he had a penetrating, cynical look. 
Eut it would be strange indeed, Walter reflected, if he who 
was not afraid of fate, who was about to defy the world in 
arms, should be afraid of an old stone-breaker on the roads. 
The thought passed through his mind, ajid brought a smile 
to his face as he stood in the dark, recovering his breath. 
All was perfectly silent in the night around. The village 
had shut itself up against the cold. There was nobody 
near. The heat and passion in Walter's being seemed to 
stand like an image of self-concentrated humanity, inde- 
pendent of all the influences about, indifferent, even an- 
tagonistic, throbbing with a tremendous interest in the 
midst of those petty personal concerns of which the world 
thought nothing, but in himself a world higher than nat- 
ure, altogether distinct from it. The little bit of shadow 
swallowed him up, yet neither shadow nor light made any 
difference to the mind which felt all moons and stars and 
the whole system of the universe inferior to its own burning 
purpose and intense tumultuous thoughts. 

But while he stood there, indifferent to the .whole earth 
about him, a little sound of the most trivial character sud- 
denly caught his ear, and made every nerve tingle. It was 
a sound no more important than the click of the latch of 
the cottage door. Had she heard him, then, though he 
was not aware of having made any sound? Had she divined 
him with a mind so much more sensitive than that of ordi- 
nary mankind? He stood holding his breath, listening for 
her step, imagining it to himself, the little skim along the 
pavement, the touch when she paused, firm yet so light. 
He heard it in his thoughts, in anticipation: but in reality 
that was not what he heard. Something else sounded in 
his ears which made his veins swell and his heart bound, 
yet not with pleasure — a voice which seemed to affront the 
stillness and offend the night, a voice without any softness 
or grace. either of tone or words — something alive and hos- 
tile to every feeling in his heart, and which seemed to Wal- 
ter's angry fancy to jar upon the very air. And then there 
followed a sound of steps; they were coming to the gate. 
She was with him, accompanying him, seeing him off. 
Was it possible? Walter made a step forward and clinched 
his fist; he then changed his mind and drew back. 

Anyhow^ yoiTll think it over," said tlie voice of the 
man whom he had met on the road. It's a good offer. 


A .POOR GENTLEMAN. 


227 

aiiiH every day you^li gefc as good. A good blow-out and 
good breakfast, and all that, would suit me just as well 
you. I ain^t ashamed of what Tm doing; and you^d 
ok stunning in a veil and all that. But what^s the good 
V. making a fuss? It^s fun, too, doing a thing on the sly. 
And was it her voice that replied? Yes, it^s fun. I 
onY mind that, not a bit. I should just like to see it 2 )ut 
71 the stage. You and me coming in, and your mother's 
>ok. Oh, her look! that^s what fetches me!^^ 

It could not be her, not her! and yet the voice was hers; 
id the subdued peal of laughter had in it a tone which lie 
had felt to thrill the air with delight on other occasions; 
but not now. The man laughed more harshly, more loudly: 
and then they appeared at the gate in the moonlight. He 
so near them, unable to stir without be.traying himself, was 
invisible in the gloom. But the light caught a great white 
shawl ill which she had muffled herself, and made a sort of 
reflection in the tall shiny hat. They stood for a minute 
there, almost within reach of his hand. 

‘‘ DonT you stand chattering,^^ she said; it^s time for 
your train; and I tell you it^s a mile off, and you 11 have to 
run.^^ 

“ There^s plenty of time,"^ said he. I should just like 
to know who was that young spark that sent me off out of 
my way to-day. I believe it^s some one that^s sweet upon 
you too, and as youh*e holding in hand — 

^‘ Nonsense/’ she said, ‘‘ I see nobody liere."^^ 

Oh, tell that to — them that knows no better; ^see no- 
body; only every fellow about that's worth looking at; as 
if I didn^t know your little ways!^^ 

• She laughed a little, not displeased; and then said, 
There's nobody worth looking at; but let me again say, 
go; the old man will be out after me. He won't believe 
you've got a message from mother; he doesn't now. He 
doesn't believe a word I say. " 

No more should I if I was in his place. Oh, I know 
your little ways. You'll have to give them over when 
we're married, Em. It's a capital joke now, don't you 
Jknow, but when we're married — " 

^e're not married yet," she said, and perhaps never 
will be, if you don't mind." 

Oh, I say! When we've just settled how it's to be 
done, and all about it! But look here, don't you have any- 


22S 


A POOR GENTLEMAN'. 


thing to say to that young \na in the knickerbockers^ 
He^s cute, whoever he is. He might have put me off the 
scent altogether. I couldn^t ha\e done it cleverer myselL 
Don^tlethim guess what^s going on. He^s Just the cne, 
that fellow is, to let the old folks know, and spoil our fun.^^ 

Look here,^^ said the girl, I warn you, Ned, yoiffll 
lose your train. 

Not I. 1^11 make a run for it. Good-bye, Em!^^ 

Great heavens! did he dare to touch her, to approacli his 
head with the shiny hat still poised upon it to hers. Tho 
grotesque horror overwhelmed Walter as he stood trembling 
with rage and misery. There was a little murmuring of 
hushed words and laughter, and then a sudden movement: 
‘‘Be off with you, she said, and the man rushed away 
through the gleams of the moonlight, his steps echoing 
along the road. She stood and looked after him, with her 
white shawl wrapped round her head and shoulders, mov- 
ing from one foot to the other with a light buoyant move- 
ment as if to keep herself warm. The motion, the poise 
of her figure, the lingering, all seemed to speak of pleasure. 
Walter stood in the dark with his teeth set and his hand 
clinched, and misery fierce and cruel in his soul. It seemed 
impossible to him to suffer more. He had touched the 
very bottom of the deepest sea of wretchedness; the bitter- 
ness of death he thought had gone over him, quenching his 
very soul and all his projects. ,His love, his hopes, his 
wishes seemed all to have melted into one flame of fury,, 
fierce rage, and hate, which shook his very being. It 
seemed to Walter that he could almost have murdered her 
where she stood within three paces of him; and if the veil 
of darkness had been suddenly withdrawn the boldest might 
have shuddered at the sight of that impersonation of wrath, • 
standing drawn back to keep himself quiet, his hand 
clinched by his side, his eyes blazing as they fixed upon her, 
within reach of the unconscious watcher, so light and 
pleased and easy, not knowing the danger that was so near. 
Her head was turned away from him watching her lover — 
her lover! — as he rattled along the road; and when AValter 
made a sudden step forward out of the shade, she started 
with a suppressed alarmed cry and wail of terror. 

“Mr. Penton! you here !^^ 

“Yes. I\e been here — too long. . 

“ Oh, Mr. Penton, cried the girl, “ yoiPve heard what 


A POOE GEKTLEMAK. 




weVe been saying! Do you call that like a gentleman to 
listen to what people are saying? You have no right to 
make any use of it. You did not put us on our guard. 
You have no right to make any use of what you heard 
when we didn^t know. 

Walter came up to her, close to her, and put his hand 
upon the fleecy whiteness of her shawl, into which it seemed, 
to sink as into snow. 

Will you tell me this?^^ he said. ‘‘ You are one per- 
son to old Crockford, another to him, another to me.. 
Which is you?’^ 

A man who has been injured acquires an importance, a 
gravity, wdiich no other circumstances can give him; and. 
the tone of his misery was in AYalter^s voice. He imposed 
upon her and subdued her in spite of herself. She shrunk 
a little away from him and began to cry. 

It is not my fault! 1 never asked you to notice me. I 
never pretended I was any one — not your equal — not — 

Which is you?^^ he said. Through the soft shawl he^ 
reached her arm at last, and grasped it firmly, yet with a 
weakening, a softening. How could he help it when he 
felt her iu his power? Through her shawl, and through 
the mist of rage and bitterness about him, the quick-witted 
creature felt how the poor boy^s heart was touched, and 
began to melt at the contact of her arm. 

‘‘Which — is me? Oh,’^ she cried, “you don’t know 
me — you donT know my circumstances, or you would not 
ask. You doiTt know what I come from, nor how I have 
been surrounded all Iny life. It is the best that is me! It 
is, whatever you may think. 

Her arm quivered in his grasp; her slight figure seemed 
to vibrate so near to him. It appeared to his confused 
brain that her whole being swayed and wavered with the 
appeal he made to her. She lifted her face to his, and that 
too was quivering in every line. She was entirely in his 
power, to be shaken, to be annihilated at his will, and he 
had the power over her of right as well as of strength. 

“ The best — I don’t know which is the best. I came up 
to tell you — to ask you — to let you decide. And I find you. 
with a man who— is going to marry 3 'ou.” 

“He thinks so, perhaps; but a man can’t marry one 
without one’s own consent.” 

“ Your consent! Y^ou seemed to agree to everything he 


230 


A POOR GEXTLEMAX. 


said!^^ cried the young man in his rage. ‘ ^ A fellow like 
that! A cad — a — And I waiting here — waiting to see 
yon — oh!^^ He flung her arm from him, almost throwing 
her off her balance. But when he saw her totter, com- 
punction seized the unhappy boy. You make me a 
brute!’^ he cried; Tve hurtyou!^^ and felt as if, in the 
stillness of the night, and the despair of his heart, his voice 
sounded like a wild beast^s cry. 

You have hurt me — only in my heart, she said. 
“ Oh, but listen. I know it all looks bad enough; but you 
listened to him, and you must listen to me. You think 
he^s not good enough for me, Mr. Penton; but a little 
while ago he was thought far too good, and I — perhaps I 
thought so, too. Hot — oh, not now. Wait a minute be- 
fore you cry out. Who had I ever seen that was better.^ 
I had heard of other kind of people in books, but either I 
thought they didn^t live now, or at least they were far, far 
out of my reach. I never knew a gentleman till — till — 

Her voice died away; it had been getting lower, softer, 
complaining, pleading— now it seemed to die away alto- 
gether, fluttering in her throat. 

Walter^s voice too was choked by emotion and 
excitement. The strong current of his thoughts and wish- 
es, so violently interrupted, found a new channel and flood- 
ed all the obstructions away. Till — I Could anything be 
more pathetic than this confusion and self-revelation? 

You did not tell him so,^^ he said, with a remnant of his 
wrath — a sort of rag of resentment, which he caught at as 
it flew away. You let him believe it was he; you made 
liirn understand — 

Mr. Penton,'’^ she cried, listen. What am 1 to do? 
You’ve sought me out, you’ve been far too kind; but I 
can’t let myself be a danger to you too. You know it 
never, never would be allowed if it were known you were 
coming here to me. And now that I’ve known you, how 
can I bear living heVe and not seeing you? It was the only 
charm, the only pleasure — Oh, I’m shameless to tell you, 
but it’s true.” 

Eminy,’^ said the lad, in his infatuation, laying once 
more his hand on her arm, but this time trembling himself 
with feeling and tenderness, if it’s true, how could you — 
how could you let that man — ” 

Mr. Penton, just hear me out. He can take me away 


K POOH GENTLEMAN. 


231 


from this, and give me a home, and take me out of the 
way of harming you. Oh, don^t you see how I am torn 
asunder! If I throw him over there/s no hope for me. 
Oh, what am I to dor What am I to do?’^ 

Walter was moved beyond himself with an impulse of 
enthusiasm, of devotion, which seemed to turn his feeling- 
in a moment into something sacred — not the indulgence of 
his own will, but the most generous of inspirations. He 
put his arm round her, and supported her in her trembling 
and weakness. 

‘"Emmy,^Mie said, his young voice ineffably soft and. 
full of tears — Emmy, darling, we’ll find a better way. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE FUNERAL DAY. 

The day of Sir Walter Fenton’s funeral was a great if 
gloomy holiday for the whole country about. A man so 
old, and so little known to the neighborhood, could not be 
greatly mourned. He had kept up, no doubt, the large 
charities which it is the worthy privilege of a great family 
to maintain for the benefit of the country, but he had never 
appeared in them, and few people associated a personal 
kindness with the image of the stately, old man who had 
been seen so seldom for years past. The people in the vil- 
lage and all the houses scattered along the road were full 
of excitement and curiosity. The carriages which kept 
arriving all the morning gradually raised the interest of the 
spectators tow^ard the great climax of the funeral procession, 
which it was expected would be half a mile long, and em- 
braced everybody of any importance in the neighborhood, 
besides the long line of the tenantry. And then the flowers 
— that new evidence of somber vanity and extravagant 
fashion. To see these alone was enough to draw a crowd. 
In the heart of the winter, just after Christmas, what 
masses of snowy blossoms, piled up, crushing and spoiling 
each other — flowers that cost as much as would have fed a 
parish! The villagers stood with open mouths of wonder. 
No one there in all their experiences of life — all the wed- 
dings, christenings, summer festivals of their recollection- 
had seen such a display. The procession, headed by no 
black mournfuhhearse, such as would have seemed natural 


^ 3 ^ 


A POOR GEKTLEMAl^. 


to the lookers-on, bufc by a sort of triumphal car, covered 
with flowers, drew forth crowds all along the way. 

The Pentons, who were now the lords of all — or rather 
of as little as was practicable, for all that w^as unentailed 
naturally w^ent without question to Sir Walter ^s daughter — 
had not a carriage of their own in which to swell the pro- 
cession. And though they were now naturally in the chief 
place, they were j^crhaps the least known of all the rural 
potentates, great and small, who shook hands in silence, 
with looks of sympathy more or less solemn, with Mr. Eus- 
-sell Penton after the ceremony was over. Sir Edward, in- 
deed, the new baronet, had known them all in his day; but 
Walter looked on with a half-defiant shyness, with scarcely 
an acquaintance in the multitude. And the sensation was 
very strange to both father and son when all the Train had 
dispersed and they came back to the great house which vfas 
henceforward theirs. Mrs. Bussell Penton had not since 
the moment of her father^s death made any show of her 
grief. She had been entirely stricken down on that day. 
A frightful combination and mingling of emotions had 
prostrated her. Grief for her father; ah, yes! He had 
been perhaps the one individual in the world upon whose 
full comprehension she had leaned; but in his dying even 
this had failed her, and she felt that he comprehended her 
and she him no longer, and that at the last moment his 
steps had strayed from hers. A more bitter and terrible 
discovery could not be; and when with that came the sense 
that all her hopes had failed — that the plans so nearly 
brought to some practical possibility had all come to noth- 
ing — that everything was too late — that, instead of securing 
her home for an eternal possession, which was what her 
eager spirit desired, she had only presented herself to the 
W'orld in the aspect of a grasping woman, endeavoring to 
take advantage of a poor man and seize his inheritance — 
when all this became apparent to her, Alicia covered her 
face and withdrew from the light of day. The loss of one 
wdio had been the chief object in her life for so long, the 
father whom she had loved, was not much more than a 
pretense (and she felt this too to the bottom of her heart) 
for the misery that overwhelmed her; wdiich was not grief 
only, but disappointment almost more bitter than grief; 
disenchantment and failure mingled with the sorrow and 
loss, and made them more keen and poignant than words 


A POOE GEis^TLEMAX. 


2 ^) 3 - 


can tell. And she was ashamed that it should be so — 
ashamed that, when ail around her gave her credit for thus 
profoundly mourning her father, sho was mourning in 
him her own disappointed hopes, her disgust, her failure, 
as well as the loss her heart had sustained. This conscious- 
ness was in itself one of the bitterest parts of her burdene. 
Her husband came into the room with sympathetic looks^ 
her maid stole about on tiptoe, everything was kept in 
darkness and quiet to soothe her grief. And yet her grief 
was but a small part of wdiat her proud spirit was suffer- 
ing. To feel that this was so was almost more than she 
could bear. 

After the first day she would indeed bear it no longer. 
She would permit no more of that obsequious tenderness 
which is given to sorrow, but got up and came forth to 
take her usual place in the house and fulfill her ordinary 
duties, refusing as much as she could the praises lavished 
upon her for her self-control and unselfishness and regard 
for others. She bore up^^ wonderfully, everybody said; 
but Alicia, to do her justice, would have none of the ap- 
plause which was murmured about her. I did not ex- 
pect my father would live forever, she said, with a tone 
of impatience to her husband; and to lie there and think 
everything over again, is that to be desired? I would 
rather feel I had some duty still and claims upon me. 

‘‘ Oh, many claims,^ ^ he said; but you must not over- 
task youi’ strength. 

She had no fear of overtasking her strength, but rather a 
feeling that if she could get to work — as her maid did, as 
the house-maids did, to prepare for her departure and the 
entry of the other family — that would be the thing which 
would do her good. After the funeral she came out in her 
deep mourning, out of the library, in which she had been 
spending that solemn hour, to meet the chief mourners 
when they returned. It would have pleased her better to 
have been chief mourner herself; but it had been said on 
all hands that it would be too much for her, So she 
had spent the time while the slow cortege was winding along 
the country road and all the gloomy formulas were being 
fulfilled, by herself in the old man^s favorite room, where 
everything spoke of him, reading the funeral service over 
and over, thinking — now they will be there, and there: 
now arrived at the grave; now leaving him — beside the 


234 


A POOR GPINTLEMAJS-. 


boys. It vvai that thought that brought the tears. Beside 
the boys! They had lain there for twenty years and more, 
but she could still shed tears for them; for all the rest her 
“Oyes were dry. And when the carriages came back she 
came out quite composed, though so pale, in all the solem- 
nity of her mourning, covered with crape, to the drawing- 
room to receive them. She had bidden her husband to 
bring the new proprietor back with him, that everything 
might at once be said which remained to say. She gave 
her hand to Edward, who came forward to meet her, he too 
in deep mourning; but her eye went beyond him to the 
boy who stood behind, and whose slight young figure 
seemed to hold itself more erect, and with an air of greater 
self-belief than when she saw him last. What wonder! he 
was the heir. 

I wanted to see you, she said. ‘‘ Gerald will have 
told you — that everything might be put at once on the 
footing w'e wish it to be:^^ 

“ I told you, Alicia, that your cousin would not hurry 
you. He is as anxious as I am that you should have no 
trouble. We have talked it all over — 

“ Why shouldnT 1 have trouble?^^ she said. “ There is 
no reason in the world for sparing me my share of the 
roughness. 1 am better so. Edward, if you should wish 
to get possession soon, you and your wife, you may be sure 
I will put no obstacles in your way. • 

“ I wish you would believe that we have no wish, no de- 
sire. We want you to act exactly as may suit you best — to . 
consider yourself still in your own house. 

“That is impossible, she said, quickly; “mine it is 
not, nor ever was; and now that he is gone who was its 
natural master — I know j)eifectly well how considerate you 
will be. What I am expressing is my own wish — not to be 
in your way — not to put off your settling down. You have 
a large family — you will want to settle everything. 

At this Sir Edward began to clear his throat, and it took 
him some time to get out the next w^ords. 

“ Alicia,/^ he said, “ we have been thinking a great deal 
about it, my wife and 

“ Y'^es, you must naturally have thought about it. Mrs. 
Penton — here the speaker paused, grew red, hesitated a 
little, and then went on — “she must wish to have every- 
thing decided about the removal, and to know what funii- 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


235 


ture will be wanted^ and a great deal besides. If you 
would like to bring her to see for herself, and judge what 
is necessary — I hope you understand me — my husband and 
I will give every facility. 

‘‘My dear, your cousin knows all that,^*^ said Eussell 
Penton, not without impatience. 

“ It was something else I wanted to say. My wife — is a 
woman of great sense, Alicia. 

Mrs. Eussell Penton made a slight bow of assent. She 
had nothing to do with his wife. She did not like to hear 
of her at all, the woman who was now Lady Penton, and 
yet was a woman of no account, an insignificant mother of 
a family. This description, which the person to whom it 
belongs is generally somewhat proud of, is often to women 
without that distinction a contemptuous way of dismissing 
an individual of whom nothing else can be said. Edward 
Penton^s wife was no more than that. Sense! Oh, yes, 
she might have sense, so far as her brood and its wants 
were concerned. 

She always thought — an opinion which, however, she 
did not express till very lately, and in which I did not 
agree — that this house, which you and my poor uncle kept 
up so splendidly — 

Alicia gave an impatient wave of her hand. She could 
not see why Sir Walter should be called poor because he 
was dead. 

“ Yes,^^ said Sir Edward, “ it has been splendidly kept 
up; nothing could be more beautiful, or in better taste. 
You alw^ays had admirable taste, Alicia; and mv poor dear 
uncle — 

“ DonT,'’^ she cried; “ what is it you want to say? I 
beg your pardon, Edward, if I am impatient. For HeaveiPs 
sake come to the point. 

“ I know,^^ he said, wdth a compassionate look, “grief 
is irritable. My wife has always been of opinion that for 
us, wfitli our large family, the possession of Penton would 
be no advantage. We could not keep it up as it has been 
kept up. The entailed estates by themselves are not— you 
must have a little patience with me, my dear Alicia, or I 
never can get out what I have to say.^^ 

She seated herself with a sigh of endurance. All this 
was intolerable to her. She wanted nothing to be said, but 
simply that she should go away, wdio no longer could keep 


mo 


A POOR GEXTLEMAISr. 


possession, and that they who had the right should come in 
— no struggle about it, not a word said, not a lament on 
lier side, and if possible not a flourish of trumpets on theirs 
— at least, not anything that she should hear. It was like 
Edward to maunder on, though he must have known that 
she could not endure it. And his wife with her sense! But 
an appearance of dignity must be kept up, and she must, 
she knew, hear out what he had to say. 

‘‘Go on, said Bussell Penton, “ you can understand 
that she is not able for very much.'’^ And he came 
and stood by the back of his wife^s chair with his usual un- 
demonstrative self-forgetfulness, full of sympathy for her, 
though he did not approve of her — all of which things she 
knew. 

“It comes to this,^^ said Edward 'Penton, a little con- 
fused in his story; “ I did not agree with her at all. When 
we entered into the negotiations — which have come to noth- 
ing — I did it without any heart. It was only on the morn- 
ing I spent here, you know, the morning that — it was only 
then I perceived that my wife was right. We have talked 
it over since, Alicia, and I have a proposal to make you. 
If you like to remain — 

She got up from her chair suddenly, clinching her hands 
in impatience. “ Xo, no, no, she cried, almost vio- 
lently, “ I want to hear nothing more about it. There is 
nothing, nothing more to say.^^ 

“If you svould but hear me out, Alicia! this that I ^ni 
^speaking of would really be a favor to us. We have not 
the means to keep it up. We have things to think of, of 
far more importance than the gardens and glass and all 
that. We have our children to think of. The house is a 
great deal to you — and — and it’s something to me that 
know it so well; but to them — to them it doesnT matter,’^ 
he said, with a sort of contemj^t for the Pentons who were 
only half Pentons though they were his children. “ I 
would rather a great deal you kept it and lived in it, and 
remained as you have been. 

There was a curious little by-play going on in the mean- 
time. Walter listened to his father with consternation, 
moving a step nearer, looking on eagerly as if desiring to 
interfere in his own person — while over the face of Eussell 
Pen ton there came a shade of anxiety, suspense, and an- 
moyance. He was sufficiently calm to put out his hand 


A POOR GEKTLEMAis'. 


237 


keeping Walter back; but he was no longer a mere spec- 
tator of the interview. Alarm was in his face; he had 
thought he had escaped, and here was the chain agaiii 
ready to drag him back. Sir Edward turned to him at the 
end of his little speech with a direct appeal, “ Speak to 
her, Eussell; I make the offer in a friendly spirit. There^s 
nothing behind,^’ he said. 

‘‘ That I am sure of, hut it is for Alicia to answer. She 
must decide, not i / ) 

^‘1 have decided,’^ said Mrs. Penton, with something 
like suppressed passion. ‘‘ No; if it had been mine I 
should have been glad, why should I deny it? I was born 
liere. I like it better than any other place in the world. 
But there are some things more important than even the 
house in which one was born. Go back to your wife, Ed- 
ward, and tell her I dare say she understands many things, 
but me she doesn’t understand. To owe my house to your 
civility and hers, to hold it at your pleasure, no, no —a 
thousand times. Perhaps you mean well — I will say I am 
sure you mean well; but I couldn’t do it. Gerald, there’s 
been enough of this, I should like to go away.” 

Over Eussell’s face there shot a gleam of satisfaction; 
but he did not let it appear in what he said. Alicia, you 
must not be hasty. Your cousin can mean nothing but 
kindness. Let me tell him you will think of it. He does 
not want an immediate answer. You might be sorry 
after—” 

Gerald! it is not a thing you have ever wished.” 

No, I am like your cousin’s wife,” he said, with a 
slight laugh. But what has that to do with it? It is for 
you to judge; and you might repent — ” 

She cast a glance round the stately room, with all the 
beautiful furniture so carefully chosen to enhance and em- 
bellish it. Can one help the hideous thoughts that against 
one’s will come into one’s mind? Swift as lightning there 
flashed before her a picture of what it would be — the pict- 
ures gone, the rich carpets, in which the foot sunk, the 
hangings of satin and velvet — and the whole furnished as 
an upholsterer would do it, called in in a hurry, and koj-)! 
to. the lowest possible estimate; and then the children of all 
ages, rampant, running over everything. She saw this in 
her imagination, and with it at the same instant felt a 
shrinking of horror from the desecration, and a horrible 


238 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


momentary exultation. Yes, exultation! over the differ- 
ence, over the contrast. It was better so; the stateliness 
and splendor must sink with her reign. With the others, 
her supplanters, would come in squalor, pettiness, all the 
unlovely details of poverty. It gave her a sense almost of 
guilty pleasure that the contrast should be so marked be- 
yond all possibility of mistake. 

No,^' she said, with forced composure, ‘‘ I shall not 
repent. Tliis chapter of life is over. It has been long, 
far longer than is usually permitted to a woman. I shall 
not interfere with you, Edward; it is your place, and you 
must take it. Good-bye; it was only to tell you that no 
hinderance should be raised on my part— that as soon al- 
most as you please — as soon as it is possible — 

‘‘ There was something else, Alicia, you meant to say. 

“ What else?^^ Her eyes followed her husband^s to where 
Walter stood; then a sudden flush covered her pale face. 

Yes, that is true — it is concerning your son. Mr. Roch- 
ford will give you the papers, and my husband will explain. 
My father had an idea, I can not think how it arose; but 
he had an idea, and it is my business to carry it out.^^ 

Then is this allp^ cried Edward Penton; for his part, 
lie was not even curious as to what had been done for 
W^alter. He almost resented it as she did. Is this all? 
Y^ou will not allow us to offer — you will not listen. After 
all, if I am my poor uncle^s successor I am still your cousin, 
Alicia. It is not my fault. 

‘Mt is no one^s fault, ’'’ she said. 

And we all feel for you. Even were it a sacrifice we 
should be glad to make it. My wife — ’’ 

Mrs. Russell Penton rose hurriedly. You are very 
kind,’’ she said. ‘‘ Good-bye, Edward; I have had a great 
deal to try me, and I don’t think I can bear any more.” 

She hurried out of the room as the servant came in witli 
a message. She could not bear .to hear the new title, and yet 
how could she avoid hearing it? Sir Edward— it was in her 
ears all the time. And when her husband had said in that 
cumbrous way, ‘^ your cousin’s wife,” there had passed 
through her mind the ‘‘ Lady Penton ” which he would 
not say, which she could not say, which seemed to choke 
her. Lady Penton, her mother’s name! And it was all 
perfectly just and right. This was what made it so intoler- 
able. They had a right to the name. They had a right to 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. ^00 

the position. And nothing could be more wretched, en- 
vious, miserable than the exasperation in her soul. 


CHAPTER. XXX. 

AFTERW^AKD. 

Everything was very quiet at the Hook on the funeral 
day; all the blinds were drawn down, even those which 
could be seen only from the garden and the river, and Mrs. 
Penton—nay, Lady Penton, tliough she did not easily fall 
into the title, and, indeed, until Sir Walter was buried 
scarcely felt it right to bear it— had quite a little festival of 
mourning all to herself with the girls, who had no inclina- 
tion to gainsav her. They knew nothing of the vagaries of 
girls of the present epoch, and it never occurred to them to 
go against anything she projiosed or to doubt its propriety, 
though if there was an absui-d side to it they saw that too 
later on, and made their little criticisms, no doubt, with 
littl'e jokes to each other, not to be ventilated till long, 
long after. There is perhaps a natural liking in the femi- 
nine heart for all those little exhibitions of importance which 
the great crises of life make natural. To stand in the 
privileged position of those who are immersed in sorrow, 
yet not to be immersed in sorrow; to have all the conse- 
quence which is derived from fresh mourning and nearness 
to ‘‘ a death; yet to have the heart untouched, and no 
real trouble in it — this is something which pleases, which 
almost exhilarates in a somber way. It is so good to think 
that the death is not one which touches us, that we are 
only lightly moved by it, sitting in a voluntary gloom to 
please ourselves and compliment the other, not in the 
Valley of the Shadow' of Death. Lady Penton in lier w'ay 
enjoyed all this, especially after .her husband had gone. 
She put on her mourning, and made the girls dress them- 
selves in the black frocks which had just come home, and 
then sitting dowm in tlie midst of them she too read the 
funeral service. It w'as very soothing, she said— all the 
more that she had so little real need of being soothed. Tlie 
girls were full of awe and acquiescence; the new thought 
that some one had died, though it w'as only an old man, 
touched them, and the idea of all his death w'ould bring 


240 


A POOK GENTLEMAI5'. 


about increased the subduing, half-compunctious senti« 
ment. It was not their fault that he had died^ yet they 
seemed somehow involved in it — almost to blame. 

Little Mab put on a black frock also, though she had no 
intention of going into mourning, and made one of the 
little audience to whom the mother read the burial service. 
She was the spectator amid the group who felt themselves 
more immediately concerned, and it was all very strange to 
her — almost droll, it must be allowed. She was not wise 
enough to see how far the sentiment was real, and sprung 
out of the confused emotions of this critical period, and 
she was too sympathetic to pronounce that it was all false, 
which to a little woman of the world would have been the 
reasonable thing. She did not, in fact, at all understand 
these innocent people, though they were so easily under- 
stood. Her education made her look for motives in what 
they did; and they had no motives, but acted on the simple 
instinct of nature. Her keen little blue eyes, which were 
so child-like and full of laughter, scintillated with interest 
and the endeavor to understand. It was all so strange to- 
her, so novel — the large family, the homely living, the 
community of feeling, everybody moving together, which 
was puzzling beyond description. She had seen so much 
of the world in her wealthy orphanhood, even though she 
was so young, that a sphere so simple and action so single- 
minded, were altogether beyond her understanding. She 
kept looking out for the secret, the rift within the lute, the 
point at which this unanimity would break up, but it did 
not appear. She had been taught a great deal about fort- 
une-hunting, and the necessity of taking care of herself, 
and she had heard those side-whispers of society which can 
not escape the ears even of children — those insinuations of 
evil underneath and selfishness always rampant. She 
would not have been surprised had she found that Ally 
and Anne had schemes of their own, or their mother some 
deep-laid plan which nobody suspected. And when she 
found that there was nothing of the sort — so far, at least, 
as her keen inspection could find^ out — Mab was far more 
puzzled than if she had made any number of discoveries. 
There was but one particular in which she felt that there 
might be an opening into the unknown, and that was 
Walter — not, however, in the way in which she had been 
prepared for delinquency. He paid no attention to herself. 


A POOE gentlemans’. 


241 


neither did any of the otliers make the faintest effort to put 
them in each other^s way. There was certainly no fortune- 
hunting in the case. But Mab felt that Walter’s absences 
were not for nothing. She was astonished in her prema- 
ture wisdom that no one took any note of them or seemed 
to mind. Perhaps there was a little pique in her souL 
Slie had been interested in W"altei% but he had shown na 
interest in her. She could not but think he would be 
much better employed making himself agreeable to the 
heiress whom fortune had thrown in his way than in in- 
volving himself in some clandestine love-making, which she 
felt sure' was the case — some entanglement probably in the 
village, to which he seemed always to be going. What 
could be more silly? Mab had a strong practical tendency^ 
perhaps drawn from the father who had made his own way 
so effectively. She felt vexed with Walter for this throw- 
ing away of his chances. Looking at the subject with per- 
fect impartiality, she could not but feel that a young man 
coming into an encumbered property — or, at least, what 
was just the same as an encumbered property — to neglect 
the fortune which, for anything he knew, lay ready to his 
hand, was a mingled weakness and absurdity of the most 
obvious description. She did not enter into the question 
whether she herself would be disposed to assent or not. 
That was her own business, and not his. But that he 
shoukhbe so blind as not to try I And in the meantime she 
observed them all with wonder, and looked at their grave 
faces when they put themselves thusjn sympathy with old 
Sir Walter’s burial with a little cynical disposition to laugh, 
which it took her some trouble to restrain. 

It was amusing — it might even be said ridiculous — when 
Lady Penton, the little ceremonial being over and an hour 
or so of quiet having elapsed, drew up all the blinds again 
solemnly with her own hands, going from window to win- 
dow. 

‘‘ They will have got back to Penton b}^ this time,” she 
said, in a tone ]Derceptibly more cheerful. You can tell 
Mary to take the children out for their walk; by this time 
it will be all over. And the affairs of life must go on, 
whatever happens,” she added, with a little sigh. 

The sigh was for the trouble over, the cheerfulness for 
the life to come. They were both quite simple and true. 
She herself took a little walk afterward, still with much 


A POOR GE5^TLEMA^^ 


“342 

gravity, round the garden, in which Mab, in her character 
iXB a philosophical observer, took pains to accompany her. 

But you never knew Sir Walter Penton, did you?^^ she 
asked. 

“ Yes, I knew him, but not well. We went there a few 
times when we were newly married. After the death of 
the sons they rather turned against Edward. It was a pity, 
but I never blamed thern.’^ 

Why should they have turned against him? it was not 
his fault. 

My dear,^^ said the gentle woman, quietly, you are 
not old enough to understand. 

Mab looked at her with those keen little eyes, which 
twinkled and sparkled with curiosity, and which to the 
little girPs own apprehension were able to look through 
and through all those simple people. But even Mab was 
daunted by this gentle and undoubting superiority of ex- 
perience. 

Lady Penton resumed quietly, speaking more to herself 
than to her companion, I hope she will not feel it now — 
not too much to listen. I hope she may not prove more 
proud than ever. 

She shook her head as she went slowly along, and Mab 
oould not divine what she was thinking. They went to- 
gether to the bench under the poplar-tree, where the 
weathercock which was over the Penton stables caught the 
red gold of the westering sun, and blazed so that it looked 
like a sun itself, stretching brazen rays over the dark and 
leafless woods. 

Do you think she could be happy living anywhere 
else?^^ Lady Penton said at last. 

She — who? Do you mean Aunt Gerald? Oh, yes, to 
be sure, when she knows it isnT hers. And my uncle 
hates it. 

Your uncle Lady Penton repeated. And then she 
said, after a time, I doiiT think she could be happy in 
any other house. 

But what was meant by this, or whether the new mis- 
tress of Penton was glad that her predecessor should suffer, 
or if these words were said in sympathy, was what little 
Mab could not understand. She had to betake herself to 
an investigation of the sen-timents of the others. It began 
a new chapter in her investigations when at last Sir Edward 


A POOR GENTLEMAN". 


2id 


and his son appeared in their sables, both very grave and 
preoccupied. The father went into the house with his wife: 
the son joined the youthful group about the door. But no 
one couid be more unwilling to communicate than Walter 
proved himself. He stood like a hound held in and pulling 
at the leash — like a horse straining against the curb. If 
you were to give him his head how he would go!"'’ Mab said 
to herself.) But he did not break loose as she expected 
him to do. Impatient as he was, he stood still, with now 
and then a glance at the western sky. The sunset was u 
long time accomplishing itself. Was that what he was so 
impatient for?’" 

“ I suppose there was a wonderful crowd of people, 
Wat?"" 

Yes, there were a great many people."" 

‘‘ Everybody — that was anybody — "" 

“ Everybody, whether they were anybody or not."" 

“ And were there a great many flowers? and did our 
wreath look nice? was it as big as the others?"" 

“ There were heaps of flowers; ours didn" t show one 
way or another. How could you expect it among such a 
lot?"" 

“ But you were the chief mourners, Wat!"" 

“ Yes, we were the chief mourners. I wish you wouldn’t 
ask me so many questions. Just because we were the chief 
mourners I saw next to nothing."" 

“ Did Cousin Alicia go?"" 

“ How do you suppose she could go — to have all those 
people staring?"" 

“ But did you see her? — did you see anybody? Did 
father say — "" 

“ Oh, don"t bother me,"" Walter cried. “ Don"t you see 
I have enough to think of without that!"" 

“ What has he to think of, I wonder?"" said Mab to her- 
self, gazing at him with her keen eyes. But the girls were 
silent, half respectful of the mysterious unknown things 
which he might now have to think of, half subdued by the 
presence of t^he looker-on, before whom they could not let 
it be supposed that Wat was less than perfect. And pres- 
ently, after moving about a little, saying scarcely anything, 
he disappeared in-doors. AVas it to the book-room, to look 
over his Greek? or was it to steal out by the other door and 
hurry once more to the village? It was there Mab felt sure 


244 : 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


that he always went. To the village — meaning doubtless 
to some girl there, of whose existence nobody knew. 

Sir Edward took his wife in-doors, solemnly leading her 
by the hand, and when they got to the book-room he put 
a chair for her solemnly. Already his old breeding — too 
fine for the uses of every day at the Hook — began to come 
back to him. 

‘ ^ I have not been successful, ^ ^ he said., ‘ ^ It will not do. ^ ^ 
It will not do? She wonT take it from you, Edward?'’^ 
There is no reason why she shouldiTt take it from me; 
but she will not hear of it. I have done all I could, my 
dear. There is nothing more possible. We can go in when 
ive like; they will j^ut no obstacles in our way.*^^ 

Go in when we like — and how are we to furnish Pen- 
tonr^^ she cried. 

And keep it up,^^ he said, with a groan; there are 
literally acres of glass — and to see the gardeners going 
away in the evening it is like a factory. But we can not 
belp it. I have done my best. By the bye,^^ he adjded, in 
.something of his old aggrieved tone, they have behaved 
what I suppose will be called very handsomely in another 
way. I told you my nucleus fancy about Walter — they 
bave given him ten thousand pounds. 

Whatr^^ she said, almost with a scream. 

AV alter — he took my uncle^s fancy; didnT I tell you? 
He is to have ten thousand pounds. It^s a good sum, but 
nothing to them; they are very rich; what with all the 
savings of the estate, and the money in the funds, and the 
lands elsewhere that are out of the entail, Alicia^s very rich. 
They can afford it; but all the same, it s a nice sum.^^ 

Ten thousand pounds,^^ she repeated to herself. She 
had not remarked the rest. A sort of consternation of 
pleasure overwhelmed her. It is very good of them, 
Edward, oh, very good. Why, AValter will be independent. 
Ten thousand pounds! Oh, dear me, what a good that 
would have done us — how much we should have thought of 
it! Ten thousand pounds! And what does he say?^^ 

ISTo thing, so far as I remarked. I was not thinking of 
him,^^ said Sir Edward, with a little imjDatience. He had 
so much to think of in respect to the family at large and 
all the cares of the new life, that he was a little annoyed to 
have Walter thrust into the front at such a moment. Of 
course it is a great thing for him,^^ he said. It would 


A POOR GENTLEMAN". 


245 


iiave been a great thing for us at this moment to have com- 
mand of a sum of money. My uncle might have thought 
of that. He might have thought that to change our style 
of living as we shall be obliged to do, to set up an establish- 
ment on a totally different scale, to alter everything, a 
little ready money would have been a great help; whereas 
AY alter has no use for it, no need of it, a boy of twenty. 
But there is no limit to the fantastic notions of old men 
with money to leave. 

You forget,^ ^ said his wife, that old Sir Walter in- 
tended everything to be different — that he never meant us 
to set up an establishment or live in Penton at all.^^ 

Ah, the question is, did he mean that — wasn^t it mere- 
ly a plan of Alidads? Oh, no, I\e heard nothing more. 
But I cant help thinking my uncle would really have pre- 
ferred having a family to continue the old name after him, 
instead of letting it all run into the Russell family, as I 
suppose it must have done. That reminds me, I have a 
message for that little Russell girl. Russell Penton will 
€ome for her or send for her to-morrow. He made all sorts 
of pretty speeches about our kindness in taking her in. 

Dear me, it was not worth talking about. It was 
Aliyas idea. One little thing more in our house — what 
does it matter? She is a nice little thing; she gives no 
trouble, said Lady Penton, to whom little Mab was of no 
importance at all. 

Sir Edward dismissed the subject with a wave of his 
hand. It was of still less importance to him than it was to 
his wife. He said, They are going abroad I believe very 
soon. Those people to whom money is no object always 
fly abroad to get quit of every annoyance. When shall 
you and I be able to run off, Annie, for a rest? Never, I 
fear. 

AY ell, Ed ward, she said, quietly, ‘‘if we were able in 
one way we shouldnT be in another. We couldnT leave 
the children, you know. I shouldnT wonder if the Russell 
Pentons would willin2:ly change with us — their money 
against our children. They have the worst of it after all; 
so much to leave and nobody belonging to them to leave it 
to. So we must not grumble. 

This view of the case did not appear to give Sir Edward 
much comfort. He seated himself at his table and drew 
his writing things toward him. It was only to begin once 


240 


A POOR GE^N^TLEMAN. 


more those inevitable calculations which had a charm yet 
did not make anything easier. 

If you have got anything to do/^ he said, ^^Tll not 
keep you longer. He added, as she went toward the 
door, ‘‘ Don^t make any fuss about Walter. He ought to 
understand that this makes no ditference;^^ and again, 
turning round, calling her, Annie, don^t forget to tell 
the little Russell girl.'’^ 

She went out into the garden, where the girls were still 
wandering about in the restlessness of spent excitement. 
It did not occur to her to keep back her news because of 
the little Russell girl. They all came round her, Mab 
keeping behind a little, yet following the others. The day 
was very mild, and Lady Penton had a shawl round her 
shoulders, but no covering on her head. 

Your father is rather disappointed,’^ she said. Your 
cousin Alicia will not accept what we offered. I am sorry, 
but we must just make up our minds to it.^^ 

Make up our minds to Penton!^ ^ cried Anne. 

‘‘ Oh, my dear, so far as that is concerned! but you 
know how difficult it will be. However, there is something 
else that will please you very much. You know old Sir 
Walter at the last took a great fancy to our W’at, and 
wanted to leave him something. Well, your cousin Alicia 
felt she ought to carry out her father^s wishes, and she has 
settled on him a fortune — ten thousand pounds.''^ 

Ten thousand pounds!’^ said the girls, in one breath. 

It makes him quite independent. It is a great thing 
for him at his age; I hope it will not lead him into tempta- 
tion. And it is very good of your cousin Alicia. She had 
no need to do it unless she pleased, for it was only a fancy, 
a dying fancy, which Sir Walter, perhaps, had he got 
better, might not — We must always be grateful to her, 
whatever else may happen. Few people, though they might 
be very civil, would show kindness to that extent. Lady 
Penton paused thoughtfully. Cousin Alicia had not been 
on the whole very civil, and she felt as if the thanks she 
was according were not enthusiastic enough. ‘‘It is a 
wonderful thing,^^ she added, warming herself ^ up, “ an 
absolute gift of ten thousand pounds. I donT think I ever 
heard of anything like it. It is a splendid gift. 

“ And Wat never said a word! I wonder, mother, if he 
knows. 


A POOR GEKTLKMAK. 


.247 


Yes, he knows. I dare say he was overwhelmed by it. 
He w'ould not know what to say. Where is he? I should 
like to wish him joy.^^ 

I know where he is. He has gone to the village to tell 
her/^ said little Mab to herself, and she looked the other 
way in case Lady Fenton might have read it in her eyes. 
But Lady Fenton, in her innocence, never would have 
divined what those eyes meant. And presently she carried 
the war, so to speak, into the enerny^s country by turning 
next to her visitor. 

My dear,’^ she said, there is a message for you, too. 
Mr. Russell Fenton is to send for you, or perhaps come for 
you, to-morrow. 

“ To-morrow!'’^ cried Mab, taken by surprise. While 
she was thus keeping back her sheaf of imaginary arrows, 
Jiere was one which caught herself as it were in the very 
middle of her shield. Oh!^^ she cried again, ‘‘ and must 
Igo?- 

Now she had been no inconsiderable embarrassment to 
the family at this crisis of its affairs, but the moment she 
uttered this little plaintive cry all their soft hearts turned 
to Mab with a bound of tenderness and gratitude, and great 
compunction for ever having found her in their way. 
They did not know that part of her reluctance to leave 
them was in consequence of the investigations which she 
had entered upon, and was by no means willing to break 
off. 

My dear,^^ said Lady Fenton, we have been so out 
of our ordinary while you have been with us, that I am 
sure it is very, very sweet of you to care to stay. And we 
' should all like very much to keep you a little longer. I 
hope Mr. Russell Fenton may come for you himself to- 
morrow, and then perhaps he will consent to let you stay.^^ 


OHAFTER XXXI. 

A VISIT. 

These communications were interrupted by the sound of 
carriage-wheels so near that it was not possible to escape 
the certainty that visitors were approaching. Lady Fenton 
paused for a moment, discussing with herself whether she 
should say ‘‘ Not at home,^"' the day of the funeral was 


248 


A POOR GENTLEMAIS^. 


very early to receive visitors; but then she reflected that 
they had all got their mourning — even Martha having her 
black gown — and that there was therefore no reason why 
she should not receive^ though they/^ whoever they were^^ 
would have shown better taste had they postponed their 
visit. However, in this afternoon of excitement and 
desomvrernent, it was almost a relief to see somebody who 
was not concerned, and might consequently impart some-^ 
thing new — a little change into the atmosphere. The 
carriage which came wheeling round past the drawing-room^ 
windows was new and glistening, and highly effective, much 
more so than is usually to be met with in the country: and 
out of it came two ladies, as carefully got-up as their 
vehicle, wrapped in furs and plush. That peeps were taken 
at them from the corner where a judicious observer could 
see without being seen it is almost unnecessary to sa3^ 

K’o, I donT know them,^^ said Anne, shaking her 
head. It is none of the Bannister people, nor the Miltons, 
nor the Durhams, nor anybody I ever saw. They must be 
from the other side, or else they are Eeading people, or — 
We know no Eeading people,^^ said Lady Fenton^ 
with a tone — well, perhaps it was not pride; but certainly 
it was a tone which would not have come naturally to Mrs. 
Fenton of the Hook one short week before. 

‘‘The footman is opening the door — he has such a de- 
lightful fur cape on! TheyT'e coming in. Ally, look, 
look! Dd you ever see them before? 

Ally had held back, not liking to show her curiosity be- 
fore little Mab, that critic and investigator whom she be- 
gan instinctively to divine. But she made a little soft 
movement forward now. And when she saw the ladies 
stepping out of the carriage Ally gave vent to a startled 
cry, “ Oh!^^ which showed she was not so ignorant as her 
sister. Lady Fenton turned toward her for explanation, 
but it was already too late. The door was thrown open by 
Martha with more demonstration than when she was only 
parlor-maid to Mrs. Fenton. The shadow of a title upon 
her head changed even Martha. She announced “ Mrs. 
Eochford, my. lady !’^ in a voice such as no one in the: 
Hook had ever heard before. 

“ Eochford?^^ said Lady Fenton, with a wondering ques- 
tion in her voice, looking at Ally, who seemed to know. It 
was not in her nature to bo otherwise than polite. She 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


249 


stepped forward and accepted the visitor's outstretched 
hand, and gave her a seat, but without any of the tremu- 
lous shyness of former days. She had taken up the role 
of great lady with less difficulty than could have been 
anticipated. Mrs. Eochford was large • and ample in her 
furs. She would have made three of Lady Penton; and 
the muff in which one of her hands was folded was worth 
more than all that the other lady had to wear. Neverthe- 
less, Lady Pentou, simple as she sat there, felt herself so 
entirely Mrs. Eochford ^s social superior that this outside 
splendor of appearance was altogether neutralized. Per- 
haps the visitor was a little confused by this, for she made 
another step beyond the mistress of the house and seized 
upon Ally with both her hands out and a great deal of en- 
thusiasm. 

Dear Miss Penton, how are you after all this agita- 
tion.^^^ she said, in the most sypmathetic tone, and looked 
as if she would have kissed Ally, who blushed crimson, and 
evidently did not know how to respond; and then it was 
the turn of Miss Eochford, who was effusive and sympa- 
thetic too. 

The dear child, said Mrs. Eochford, seating herself, 

looked a little lost at Penton at the ball. She had never 
been out before, I am sure, without you, Lady Penton — 
which makes such a difference to a sensitive girl. I quite 
took it ujDon me to be her chaperon. And then I think she 
on joyed herself.''^ 

Oh!^^ said Lady Penton, with a blank look; and then 
she added, “ So much has happened since that I have heard 
nothing about the ball.-^^ 

y^es, indeed,^^ said the other, in the most sympathetic 
tone. Such wonderful changes in so short a time! and 
just when we were all thinking that poor dear Sir Walter 
might live to be a hundred. Then she remembered that 
this was not an event which the Pentons at the Hook would 
naturally have found desirable. But I always say,^^ added 
the lady, that it is such a comfort when, an old gentle- 
man of that age goes out of life in tolerable comfort with- 
out suffering. Sometimes they have so much to go through. 
It seems sa mysterious.'’^ 

Meanwhile, Miss Eochford, a pretty but much-curled and 
frizzed girl of the period, seized upon Ally. Oh, ly^e 
wanted so much to come and see you. Mamma said we 


250 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


oiightn^t to, that you were much greater people now. I^ut 
you were so nice at the ball, and looked so pleased to be 
with us, I felt sure you wouldn^t mind. Wasn^t it a de- 
lightful ball? But you who were in the house must have 
felt all that dreadful business about old Sir Walter dying. 
It was very dreadful, of course; but what a good thing he 
waited till the ball was over. Had it happened only a little 
sooner there would have been no ball. Is that your sister? 
are they. both your sisters? Oh!^^ This exclamation foh 
lowed when Mab turned round and revealed to the visitor 
the features of the heiress who had been pointed out to 
everybody at the Pen ton ball. 

“ This is my sister Anne, but she wasnT at Penton. And 
this is Miss Eussell,^^ said Ally, who did not know much 
about the formulas of introduction, and who was consider- 
ably startled by the recollection that the Eochfords had 
been her protectors at Penton, which even she, simple as 
she was, felt to be inappropriate now. Mab made the new- 
comer a very dignified little bow. She knew everything of 
this kind much better than the others did, and knew very 
well who the Eochfords were. 

‘ ‘ My son has told me so often about your charming 
family and how kind you were to him; and after meeting 
Miss Penton, as there seemed then a sort of double connec- 
tion, I thought I might take it upon me to call.'’^ 

‘‘ Oh, you are very kind,""^ Lady Penton said. 

My son does nothing but talk of Penton Hook. He is 
so charmed with everything here. And he is not easily 
pleased. He is a great favorite in the county, doiiT you 
know? He is invited everywhere. I told him at his age it 
is enough to turn his head altogether. But he is very true; 
he is not led away by finery. I find tb[at he always prefers 
what is really best. 

Yes/^ said Lady Penton; ‘‘ we saw Mr. Eochford sev- 
eral times. He used to come about the business which un- 
fortunately was not completed.'’^ 

Do you say unfortunately? He supposed you would 
rather be pleased. 

1 am not at all pleased,^^ said Lady Penton, drawing 
back into the stronghold of her dignity. It is always a 
pity when family arrangements can not be carried out. 

‘‘ I am sure, ^ said Mrs. Eochford, in her most ingrati- 
ating tones, “ the county will like far better to see you. 


A POOR OENTLEMAIS^ 


251 


there than Mrs. Eiissell Penton. Not that there is any- 
thing disagreeable iti Mrs. Eussell Penton. She is every- 
thing that is nice; but it is always more or less a false 
position, don^t you think? and, on the other hand, a young 
family is always cheerful and popular. "" 

I don^t know how that may be. We are really more a 
nursery-party than anything else. 

Oh, don^t say so. Lady Penton! with those two charm- 
ing girls. 

The mother^s eye followed the wave of the visitor's hand, 
and she could not but feel that there was truth in this. 
She had not thought of Ally and Anne from this point of 
view. They were not beauties, she was aware. Still, look- 
ing at them as they were now, a thrill of that satisfaction 
and complacency which is at once the most entirely un- 
selfish and the most egotistical of sentiments warmed her 
bosom. She felt, contrasting them with the somewhat arti- 
ficial neatness of the Eochford young lady, and the blunt- 
ness of little Mab on the other hand, that they might very 
well be called charming girls. She had rarely had create 
ures of the same species to compare them with. 

They are very young, she said, and we have had 
little opportunity to do anything for them; they are not at 
all acquainted with the world. 

“And that is such a charm, I always think! When my 
son brought Miss Penton to us the other night she had that 
look of wanting her mother which is so sweet. Mrs. Pen- 
ton of course had all her guests to look to, and the anxiety 
about her father. I was so happy to take your dear girl 
under my motherly wing. It is broad enough,^^ said Mrs. 
Eochford, raising a little the arm which was clothed in 
sealskin and beaver, or in something else more costly than 
these, if there is anything more costly, and which indeed 
had an air of softness and warmth which was pleasant. She 
was what is called a motherly woman, large and caressing, 
and really kind. She might perhaps have found the cour- 
age to keep a poor girl at “ a proper distance had her 
son been in danger, but otherwise in all jDrobability would 
have been kind to Ally even had she not been Miss Penton 
of Penton. And in that case would have taken no credit 
for it, such as in the present she felt it expedient to insist 
upon. 

“ You will be going nowhere in your mourning, said 


252 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


Miss Eochford to Ally, it will be so dull for you just at 
this time of the year. I do so wish you would come to us a 
little. We doitt give parties, not often; but there is al> 
ways something going on. Mamma is very good, she never 
minds the trouble. And Charley is the very best of broth* 
ers, he is always trying to keep us amused. Now if you: 
would come theiVs nothing he wouldn’t do. We could 
give you a mount if you hunt. My sister doesn’t ride. I 
should be so happy to have another girl to go out with me. 
Oh, do come. And if the frost holds there will be skating.. 
You will have to be quiet, of course, at home for the sake 
of your mourning, but with us you needn’t mind. Oh, do I 
It would be so delightful to have you. Charley was very 
despondent about it. He thought you would be so mucb 
too grand for us, who are only Heading people, but I said 
I was sure you were not one to forget old friends.” 

Too grand!” cried Ally, turning red. Oh, no, no.” 
It was not surely that she was too grand. Still there was 
something — a sentiment of repugnance, a drawing back — 
which, if it was that, was the meanest sentiment, she 
thought, in the world. 

No, I am sure not,” said Miss Ethel Eochford. I 
knew 3^ou were not one to throw over old friends.” 

Were they old friends? She was very much puzzled by 
this question. It seemed so ungracious to make any ex- 
ception to a claim made with such kindness and enthusi- 
asm. But Ally did not know wEat answer to make when 
the ladies at length had rustled away back to their carriage, 
still very caressing and cordial, but somewhat disappointed, 
since Lady Penton, with a firmness not at all in keeping; 
with her character, had declined the invitation to Ally. 

Are you such great friends with these people?” asked 
Anne, before the sealskin had quite swept out of the door;: 
and, Were you so much with them at the ball?’’ said 
Lady Penton, sitting down, and turning her mild eyes upon 
her daughter with great seriousness. Poor Ally felt as if 
she were a culprit at the bar. • 

They were very kind,” she said, with a look of great 
humility at her mother. I never saw them except that 
one time; but they were very kind.” 

You have never told me anything about the ball, there 
have been so many other things to think of. I ought te 
have remembered, my poor little Ally, you would be very 


A POOR GEKTLEMA]Sr. 


2oS 


forlorn without me or some one; but then I thought your 
cousin Alicia — Didn^t you have any dancing then? Didn^t 
you enjoy yourself at allr^’ 

She danced all the evening/^ said Mab; I saw her. I 
never could get near her to say a word. 

‘‘ Then what does this lady meaii?^'’ the mother said. 

Poor Ally was very nearly crying with distress and 
shame_, though there was nothing to be ashamed about. 
Oh, yes I there was cause for shame, and she felt it. ’She 
had been very thankful for Mrs. Eociiford^s notice. She 
had been thankful to meet Imn, to feel herself at once 
transformed from the neglected little poor relation, whom 
no one noticed, to the admired and petted little heroine of 
the other set, who were not the great people, and yet who 
looked just as well as the great people, and danced as well^ 
and were as well dressed, and so m uch more kind. And 
]iow she felt ashamed of it all — of them and him, and all 
the people who had made the evening so pleasant. Sho 
did not like to tell her story — how she had been neglected^ 
and how she had been admired, and the comfort the Eoch- 
ford set had been to her, and now that she was ashamed of 
them all — for that Avas the conclusion which she could not 
disguise from herself. Now that she was Sir Edward Pen- 
ton^ s daughter, now that she herself was to be the first at 
Penton, she was ashamed to have known nobody but the 
Eochfords, and she was ashamed of being ashamed. The 
family solicitor, that was all — a sort of official person, whose 
duty it was to take a little notice of her, not to let her feel 
herself neglected, whom she had been so glad to cling to. 
And now? There was no word of contempt that Ally did 
not heap upon herself. She was not sure if girls were ever 
called snobs, but this she was sure of, that if so, then a 
snob was what she was. 

Mother, they’re both true,” she said. It was — oh, 
dreadful at first! I didn’t know any one. I knew some 
of them by sight, but that was all. And nobody spoke to 
me. I should have liked to go through the floor or run. 
away, but I hadn’t the courage. And then I saw him — I 
mean Mr. Eochford, you know, who has been so often 
here. And he asked me to dance; and when he saw I had 
no one to go to, took me to liis mother. And they were so 
kind; and I enjoyed myself very much after that. But— 
said Ally, and stopped short. 


A POOE (t ENT LEM AX. 


Oh, odious little traitor that she was! But she could not 
say what was in her heart besides, which was— oh, horrible 
snobbishness, miserableness, unworthiness! — that she never 
wished to see these good Samaritans any more. 

When I return her call I must thank her for being so 
kind to yoLi,^^ said Lady Penton, with a cloudy counte- 
nance. 

And this was all she said. Xor was there any further 
conversation on the subject — none, at least, which Mab 
heard. She had her own theory on the subject, and formed 
her little history at once, which was founded on Aliyas faint 
little emphasis, ‘‘ I saw him, Him Mab decided to be 
a lover, whom, now that the Pentons had risen in the 
world, the family would no longer permit to be spoken of, 
but whom Ally favored in secret, and to whom she had 
given her heart. It was a mistake which was very natural 
— the most usual thing in the world. Mab decided that it 
w^as a great blunder for the mother and sisters to interfere. 
What could they do? except, to put the other party on their 
guard? Our comprehensions are limited by our experiences. 
To understand the state of mind in which Ally was — the 
repugnance she felt toward the people whom she had liked 
so much, and who had been so kind toiler, and her disgust 
at herself for that other disgust which she could not con- 
qiiOY — was what no one at Penton Hook was the least able 
to do. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

WALTER: AXD HIS RATE. 

Walter had darted off to the village as Mab divined; 
but what was the good? He might get himself talked of, 
w^andering about Crockfoi\Ps cottage; but there was no one 
there who would compromise herself for him. He had to 
go home again for the evening meal as before, but this time 
with more impatience than before, with a stronger sense 
that the bondage was insupportable. Walter would have 
been furiously indignant had it been said to him that the 
fact of having or not having money of his own would 
change his deportment toward his family; but yet it was 
the case, notwithstanding all he could have said. He felt 
himself a different being from the docile boy who had to do 


A POOH OENTLEMAISr. 


255 


what was decided for him, to go to Oxford or wherever his 
father pleased. This morning, no further back, that had 
been all he thought of. There was nothing else possible — 
to do what was told him — what was arranged and settled 
for him — what father and riiother after one of their con- 
sultations had decided was the best. Walter would no more 
have thought of resisting that decision at twenty than 
Horry would at nine. iW a day brings so many changes 
with it. He was not now what he had been when he passed 
the cottage with his father on his way to Sir Walter^s fu- 
neral. Now he was no longer dependent; he could stand by 
himself. Jt seemed absurd to him that he should have to 
be punctual. to an hour, that he should be bound by all the 
customs of the house. Already he had felt the absurdity 
of goihg liome — home from his romance, from his drama,, 
from love and devotion on a heroic scale — to tea! Now he 
had gone a little further even than this. He was independ- 
ent, he had a fortune of his own, no need to depend upon 
his father for everything as he had been doing. And he 
had come to an age and to circumstances which not only 
justified, but made it necessary that he should act for him- 
self. Nevertheless, he was not even now prepared to break 
the bond of the old habits. He went back as before for the 
family meal, then escaping, once more hurried through the 
night to the scene which was ever in his thoughts. The. 
moon was later of rising, the night was not so clear and 
frosty as on that other evening, when lie had surprised her 
with the other lover, the man who had roused such fury in 
his breast. Since then they had met every evening, and 
Walter no longer feared that vulgar rival. They had no 
secrets from each other now. She had told him every- 
thing, or so he thought, about that other; how he had per- 
secuted her to marry him, notwithstanding the opposition 
of his parents, who were very rich, and did not think her 
good enough — how she had come here to be out of his reach 
— and how she feared now that he had discovered her hiding- 
place he would give her no peace. She had confessed 
frankly that before she met AV alter she had not minded 
the other. He was well off, he could give her a home; and 
if she had not - met Walter she might have been happy 
enough; but now, never. The boy^s heart was penetrated 
by this sweet confession; his boyish love sprung up all at 
once into a chivalrous and generous passion. He had 


A POOE GEJS'TLEMAK'. 


256 

talked to her yaguely^ splendidly, of what they could do. 
If, as seemed inevitable, his studies must be accomj)lished, 
why then they must be married at once, casting prudence 
to the winds, and he must find a little nook at Oxford 
where they could live like babes in the wood — like 
Eosamond in her bower. Yes, that was it — like Eosa- 
mond, with a flowery labyrinth all round her cottage, from 
.whence he should come every morning with his books^ and 
return when his work was over to love and hajDpiness. The 
picture had been beautiful, but vague, and she had listened 
and laughed a little, now and then putting a practical 
<luestion which confused but did not daunt the young man. 
How were they to live. What was enough for one, would 
not that be enough for two, he asked? and he cared for 
nothing, no pleasure, no luxury, but her sweet company. 
She let him talk, and perhaps enjoyed it; at least it amused 
her; it was like a fairy tale. 

But to-night — to-night! there were other things to say. 
The foolish boy caught her arm and drew it within his as 
soon as she appeared. Are you warm, are you comfort- 
able?^'' he whispered. I have so much to tell you; every- 
thing is changed. You must not hurry in again in a mo- 
ment, there is so much to say."^ 

What is changed? If you have tired of your romancing 
that would be the best tiling,^ ^ she said. 

I shall never tire of my romancing. It is all coming 
right; everything is clearing up. It will be almost too 
easy. The course of true love this time will be quite 
smooth. 

Ah, thafs what I like,"^ she cried, but how is it to 
be? You doiiT mean to say that your father and mother 
— they would never be such fools — 

“ Fools he cried, 23ressing her arm to his side; 
they he not fools, but they know nothing about it; it is 
something — something that has happened to me. 

I am glad,"^ she said, conq^osedly, that you have not 
told them ; it would be a wild thing to do. And I know 
what young menh parents are; they will sometimes 23 rctend 
to consent to set you against it — they think that if there is 
no opposition ihwill die away of itself."^ 

‘‘It will never die away,'" he said, “ opposition or no 
ojDi^osition ; but, Emmy, it isn’t a 2)enniless fellow that 


A POOR GENTLEMAN’. 257 

you^re going to marry. We sha^i^t have to live on my little 
bit of an allowance — IVe got — money of my own.'^^ 

She gave a little suppressed scream of pleasure. 

Money of your owiiT^ 

Yes; that has nothing to do with my father; that no- 
body can interfere with. It comes from my old relative, 
old Sir Walter. He has left me ten thousand pounds. 

‘‘ Ten thousand pounds she repeated, with a quickly 
drawn breath, then paused a little; that is a very nice 
sum of money. I am very glad you%^e got all that. How 
much will it bring in by the year?^^ 

He was a little "checked in his enthusiasm by this inquiry; 
and, to tell the truth, it was not a question he had consid- 
ered or knew very well how to answer. 

You might get five hundred a year for it if you were 
very very lucky; but I donT think,^^ she said, ‘‘ you will 
get so much as that. 

‘‘At all events,^ ^ he said, somewhat sobered, “ it will 
be my own; it will be something I can spend as I please, 
and with which nobody will have any right to interfere. 

. We could have existed perhaps on my allowance; but it 
would have been hard upon my darling cooping her up in 
a small cottage, with scarcely money enough to live upon — 
He thought perhaps she would interrupt him here, and 
cry out, as he liimself would have done, what did that mat- 
ter, so long as tliey were together? But she did not do 
this. She was quite silent, waiting for him to go on. 

“ But now,^^ he continued, “ it will be difterent. ' We 
can enjoy ourselves a little. I donT suj^pose we shall be 
rich even now. 

“ No/’ she said, quietly, “ you will not be rich.^^ 

He turned and looked into her face, but in the darkness 
he could see nothing. And then he was used to these lit- 
tle prudential ways she had, and the superior knowledge 
which she claimed of the world. 

“ Perhaps not rich, but well oft, don^t you think?^^ he 
said, with a little timidity, “ to begin u]3on; and then there 
would be Penton in the distance. Penton is a noble place. 
All the time of the ball I was thinking of you, how you 
would have liked it, and how much more beautiful it would 
have been had you been there. We must give a ball some 
time, when we come home — 

“ You mean,^^ she said, for he made a pause, “ when 

3— 2d half. 


258 


A POOR GENTLEMAlSr. 


you succeed; but your father is not an old man, and that 
may be a long, long time."^^ 

I hope so,^^ said Walter, fervently; ‘‘ loving you makes 
me love everybody else better. I hope it may be a long, 
long time.^^ 

Again she made no remark — which she might have done, 
perhaps saying she hoped so too; but no doubt she thought 
it unnecessary to say what was so certain and evident. 

^^But,^^ he cried, pressing her arm again closer to his 
side, I didn^t mean anything so lugubrious, I meant, 
when I brought you home. That will be a triumph, dar- 
ling! They will put up arches for us, and come out to 
meet us. It shall be a summer evening, not cold like this. 
We shall have a pair of white horses lit for a bride, though 
you will be a little more than a bride by that time, Emmy?^^ 

Shall she said, with a tone of mockery in her 
laugh. 

Why, of course,^ ^ he cried, bending over her, “ since 
it is winter now! You don’t suppose it is to be put off so 
long. Why, you say yourself you are a will-o’-the-wisp. 
You would have disappeared by that time if I left you to. 
yourself.” 

That’s true enough,” she said, with another soft sup- 
pressed laugh, which made him turn and look at her 
again, for there seemed a meaning in it more than met the 
ear. 

Don’t laugh so,” he said, softly. It sounds as if 
you would like to wring my heart, only for the fun of it; 
but it would be no fun to me. ” 

Did Ir” said she, No, it is you who are making 
fun.” 

It is not a thing to laugh about,” cried the boy. It 
is tremendous beautiful earnest to me. But I was talking 
of the coming home. My people would never say a word 
when they knew it was done, Emmy, and that you and I 
were one. They might object perhaps before, not knowing 
you. I am not even sure of that when they knew how I 
cared for you. Father might; but mother would be on my 
side. ” 

No,” she said, don’t tell me that; I am sure they 
are not so silly, your mother, above all. ” 

Do you call that silly? Well, I think she is silly then, 
dear old mother!” cried the young man, with his voice a 


A POOR GEXTLEMAK. 


259 


little unsteady. Walter felt to the bottom of his heart 
what he had said to his unresponsive companion, that in 
loving her he loved them all so much better. The faculty 
of loving seemed to have expanded in him. He had not 
an unkind feeling to any one in the world, except perhaps 
to that fellow — no, not even to him, poor beggar, who was 
losing her. To lose her was such a misfortune as made 
even that cad an object of pity to gods and men. 

And how is all this to come about?’ she said, after a 
pause. ‘‘It’s easy talking about what’s to happen in 
summer, and coming home to Penton, and all that sort of 
thing — but in the meantime there are a few things to be 
done. How is it all to come about?” 

“Our marriage?” he said. 

“ Well, yes, I suppose that’s the first step,” she an- 
swered. 

“ That is the easiest thing in the world,” said Wat. “ I 
shall go to town and arrange all the preliminaries. Why, 
what did you tell me that fellow wanted to do? Ho you 
think I’m less fit to manage it than he is?” 

“ Well,” she said, “for one thing, he’s older than you 
are; he has more freedom than you have. He knows his 
way about the world. Will they let you go to London by 
yourself, for one thing?” she asked, with again that mock- 
ing sound in her voice. 

Walter caught her arm to his side with a kind of fond 
fury, and cried, “ Emmy!” in an indignant voice. 

“ I shouldn’t if I were your people, ” she continued, with 
a laugh; “ I should feel sure you would be up to some 
mischief. But, supposing you get off from them, and get 
to London, what will you do then?” 

“ I shall do — whatever is the right thing to do. I am 
not so foolish as you think me. There is a license to be 
got, I know — a special license. ” 

“Oh,” she cried, “but that costs money! You will 
want money.” 

“Of course I shall want money,” said Walter, with a 
certain dignit}^, though his heart grew cold at the thought. 
“ You have not mucli confidence in me, Emmy; but I am 
ixot so ignorant as you think.” 

There was something like a tone of indignation in his 
Toice, and she pressed his arm with her hand. 

“ I am sure you have the courage for anything,” she said. 


260 - 


A POOR GEISTTLEMAK. 


Courage! Well, that is nofc precisely the quality that 
is needed. He thought it was his turn to laugh now. I 
ato not afraid.’^ 

J know you are not afraid of fighting or — anything of 
thattkind. But to walk into an office, and face a man who 
is grinning at you all the time, and ask for a marriage li- 
cense — 

Well,^^ he said, ‘‘ I am capable of that.^^ 

And of all the questions that will be asked you? You 
will have to answer a great many questions — all about me, 
which you don^t know, and all about yourself. 

I know that, I hope. And I shall know the other, for 
you will tell me. 

And first of all — good ness she cried suddenly, push- 
ing him slightly away from her, gazing at him in the dark- 
ness; a thing 1 never thought of — are you of ager^^ 

He stood facing her, motionless. He had put out his 
hand to take hers again, to draw it through his arm once 
more. But this question startled him, and his hand dropped 
by his side. Each stood a dark shadow to the other in the 
dark, staring into each other^s faces, seeing nothing; and 
Walter^s heart gave a jump that seemed to take it out of 
his breast. 

Yes, of age. Oh, you fool! oh, you pretender! oh, 
you boy trying to be a man ! You have known it all along, 
but you have not told me. You are not of age.?^^ 

No/^ said the poor boy, humbly. For the first mo- 
ment he felt no sensation of anger or disappointment, but 
only the consternation of one who feels the very sky thun-' 
dering down upon his head, the pillars of the earth falling. 
‘‘Fooir^ did she call him — pretender!’^ What did she 
mean by fool? What did she mean by that tone of sudden 
indignation — almost fury? He felt beaten down by the 
sudden storm. Then the instinct of self-defense woke in 
him. What have I done?’^ he said. I have concealed 
nothing from you. ^N’o, I am not of age — not till October. 
What has that to do with' it; — age can not be counted by 
mere years. 

It is, though, in Doctors^ Commons, she said, with a 
mocking laugh. ‘‘We might have saved ourselves a great 
deal of trouble and talking nonsense if you had said so at 
once. Didn^t I tell you you were too young to know what 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 261 

was wanted? Do you think they will give any kind of li- 
cense to a boy who is under age!^^ 

‘‘1 am not a boy/^ said Walter, feeling as if she had 
struck him upon the naked heart, which was throbbing so 
wildly. “ Perhaps I might be before I knew you, but not 
now, not now! And do you mean to tell me that for a 
mere punctilio like that — 

‘‘ Well, it is a punctilio,’^ she said, taking his arm sud- 
denly again, her voice dropping into its softer tone. That 
is true; nobody thinks anything of it, it is merely a matter 
of form. Even if you are found out they never do any- 
thing to you.^^ 

Found out in what?’^ 

In saying you are twenty-one when you are not; for 
that is what people have to do. It is just a punctilio, as 
you say. Nobody thinks anything of it. It is only a mat- 
ter of form. 

“ Why, it is perjury he cried, confused, not knowing 
what he said. 

If you like to call it so; but nobody minds. No one is 
harsh to a fib of that sort. Everything's fair, don’t you 
know, in love? — or so they say.^^ 

Walter’s head seemed going round and round. He could 
not feel the ground under his feet. He seemed to be lifted 
away from his firm and solid footing and plunged into a 
dark and whirling abyss. He could feel her leaning almost 
heavily upon his arm— all her weight upon him, both her 
hands clasping that support. That palpable touch seemed 
the only reality left in earth and heaven. He seemed to 
himself for a long time unable to speak; and when his 
voice came forth at last it was not his voice at all— it was a 
hoarse outburst of sound such as he had never heard before. 
Nor was it he who said the ’ words. He heard them as if 
some one else had said them, hoarse, harsh, like the cry of 
an animal. 

Should you like me to do that?” the question was asked 
by some one, in that horrible way, in the midst of the 
chilled but heavenly stillness cFf the night. 

He heard the question, but he was not conscious of any 
answer to it; nor did he know any more till he found him- 
self, or rather heard himself, stumbling down the steep 
road to the Hook, almost falling over the stones in the 
way, making a noise which seemed to echo all about. He 


262 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


knew the way well enough, and where the stony j^laces 
were, and generally ran up and down as lightly as' a iDird, 
his rapid elastic steiis making the least possible sound as he 
skimmed along. But this evening it was very different. 
He stumbled against every obstacle in his way, and sent the 
stones whirling down the road in advance of him as though 
he had been a drunken man. He felt indeed as if that 
w^ere what he w^as, intoxicated in a way that had no pleas- 
ure in it, but only a wild and stupefied confusion, which 
made a chaos all around — a noisy chaos full of the crash of 
external sounds — full of voices, conversations, in none of 
■which he took any part, though he heard things said that 
seemed to come from himself flitting across the surface of 
liis dream. 


CHAPTEK XXXIII. 

A DO^klESTIC EXPLOSION. 

The breakfast-table at the Hook was not a particularly 
Cjuiet scene. The children w^ere all in high spirits in the 
freshness of the morning, and the toys and Christmas pres- 
ents, though not very fine or expensive, had still novelty to 
recommend them. Little Molly, before she was lifted up 
to her high-chair, working away conscientiously and gravely 
with a large rattle, held at the length of her little arm, 
ivhile her next little brother drew over the carpet a cart 
fitted up with some kind of mechanism which called itself 
music; and Horry flogged his big wooden horse, and little 
Dick added a boom iqion his drum, made a combination of 
noises which might well have shut out all external sounds. 
This tumult, indeed, calmed yvhen father came in, when 
the ringleaders were lifted up on their chairs, and another 
kind of commotion, the sound of spoons and babble of lit- 
tle voices, began. What other noise could be heard through 
itr Mab did not think she could have heard anything, 
scarcely the approach of an arm}". But the ears of the 
family were used to it, and had large capabilities. When 
Martiia came in with a fresii supply of milk and a counte- 
nance more ruddy than usual, her mistress put the question 
directly \7hich so much embarrassed the young woman. 

Martha, was that your father’s voice I heard? Is there 
anything wrong at homer” 


A POOR GENTLE3IAX. 


263 


ma^ani — my lady/^ said Martha, in her confusion 
stumbling over the new title which she was in fact more 
particular about than its possessor. 

What does he want, then, so early in tlie morning? I 
hope your mother is not illr^^ 

‘‘ Oh, no, my lady/’ Martha grew redder and redder, 
and lingered like a messenger who does not know how to 
deliver a disagreeable commission, turning her tray round 
and round in her hands. 

It is me, no doubt, that Orockford wants. If it’s noth- 
ing very particular he can come here,” 

Oh, no, sir; oh, please. Sir Edward, no, it ain’t you — ” 
‘‘ Then who is it, Martha? some one here it must be.” 
‘‘Please, Sir Edward! — please, my lady — I don’t think 
as it’s no one here at all; it’s only a fancy as he’s took in 
his head. Oh,” cried the girl, her eyes moist with excite- 
ment, her plump cheeks crimson, “don’t listen to him, 
don’t give any heed to him! it’s all just fancy what he 
says. ” 


“ M'liy, what’s the matter, Martha? has John J3aker got 
into trouble? Edward, go and see what is wrong, ” said 
Lady Penton, placidly. She was very kind, but after all, 
Molly’s bread and milk, and the egg which was ordered for 
little Jack because he was delicate, were of more immediate 
importance than Martha’s love-affairs. Sir Edward was 
perhaps even more amiable in this respect than his wife. 
Old Orockford was a favorite in his way, and had often 
amused a weary afternoon when the horizon at the Hook 
was very limited and very dull. And now even Mab could 
hear, through the chatter of the children, the sound of some 
one talking, loud but indistinct, outside. At that moment, 
with the usual cruelty of fate, a pause took place in the 
domestic murmur, and suddenly Walter’s voice became 
audible, crying, 

“ Hush! Don’t speak so loud.” 

The door had been left ajar by Martha, and these words, 
so unexpected, so incomprehensible, fell into the simple 
warm interior, unconscious of evil, like a stone into the 
water. 


“ Go and see what it is, Edward,” Lady Penton repeat- 
ed, growing a little pale. The family to which for so long 
a time nothing had happened had got to a crisis, when any- 


264 


A POOR GENTLEMAJn-. 


thing might happen, and new events were the order of 
the day. 

Sir Edward, who had been going with great compos- 
ure, hurried his steps a little, and, what was more, closed 
the door behind him; but it can not be said that he antici- 
pated anything disagreeable. When he got out into the 
hall, however, he was startled by the sight of Walter, who 
was pushing Crockford into the book-room, and repeating 
in a half whisper. 

Hush, I tell you. Be quiet. What good can it do 
you to let everybody knowr^^ 

It"s right, Mr. Walter, as your father should know.-"^ 

Not if I satisfy you,^^ said the boy. Come in here. 
They are all at breakfast. Quick. Whatever it is, I am 
the person — 

Walter’s voice broke off short, and his under-lip dropped 
wdth a shock of sudden horror. His father’s hand, pre- 
venting the. closing of it, was laid upon the book-room door. 

If it is anything that concerns you, Wat, it must con- 
cern me too,” 8ir Edward said. He did not even now 
think any more of Walter’s possibilities of ill-doing than of 
Horry’s. They were still on about the same level to the 
father’s eyes. He supposed it was some innocent piece of 
mischief, some practical Joke, or, at the worst, some piece 
of boyish negligence, of which Crockford had come to com- 
plain. He followed the two into the room with the sus- 
picion of a smile at the corners of his mouth. He did not 
quite understand of what mischief his son might have been 
guilty, but there could be nothing very serious in the mat- 
ter when old Crockford was the complainant. 

Well,” he said, old friend, what has my boy done?” 

But the sight of Sir Edward and this smiling accost 
seemed to take the power of speech from Crockford, as well 
as from AYalter. The old man opened his mouth and his 
eyes; the color faded as far as that was possible out of the 
streaky and broken red of his cheeks. He began to hook 
his fingers together, changing them from one twist to an- 
other as he turned his face from the father to the son. It 
was evident that, notwithstanding his half threat to W alter, 
the presence of Walter’s father was as bewildering to him 
as to the young man. 

Well, sir,” he said, instinctively putting U23 his hand to 
his head and disordering the scanty white locks which were 


A POOK GENTLEMAISr. 


265 


drawn over his bald crown, ‘‘ I’m one as is lookin’ ahead, 
so being as I’m an old man, and has a deal of time to 
think; my occypation’s in the open air, and things goes 
through of my head that mightn’t go through of another 
man’s.” 

That is all very well,” said Sir Edward, still with his 
half smile. ‘‘ I have heard you say as much a great many 
times, Crockford, but it generally was followed by some- 
thing less abstract. What has your occupation and your 
habit of thought to say to my boy?” 

Upon this Crockford scratched his head more and more. 

I was observin’ to Mr. AValter, sir, as a young gentle- 
man don’t think of them things, but as how it’s a good 
thing to take care ; for you never knows what way trouble’s 
a-going to come. The storm may be in the big black cloud 
as covers the whole sky, or it may be in one that’s no 
bigger nor a man’s hand.” 

“ Yes, yes, yes,” said Sir Edward, impatiently; I tell 
you I’ve heard you say that sort of thing a hundred times. , 
Come to the point. What is there between Walter and 
you?” 

There’s nothing, father — nothing whatever. I haven’t 
seen Crockford for ages, except on the road. He has done 
nothing to me nor I to him.” 

Then you’d better be off to your breakfast, and leave 
him to me,” said the father, calmly. 

His mind was as composed as his looks. He felt no 
alarm about his son, but with a little amusement cast about 
in his mind how he was to draw out of the old road-mender 
the probably very small and unimportant thread of com- 
plaint or remonstrance that was in him. But Walter, 
showed no inclination to budge. He did not, it would ap- 
pear, care for his breakfast. He stood with his head cast 
down, but his eye upon Crockford, not losing a single 
movement he made. Sir Edward began to feel a faint mis- 
giving, and old Crockford took his colored handkerchief 
out of his breast and began to mop his forehead with it. It 
was a cold morning, not the kind of season to affect a man 
so. What did it all mean? 

‘‘ Look here,” said Sir Edward, this can’t go on all 
day. Crockford, you have some sense on ordinary occa- 
sions. Don’t think to pnt me off with clouds and storms, 
etc., which you know have not the least effect upon me; 


26G 


A POOR C4ENTLEMAN. 


but tell me straight off, what has Walter to do with it? 
and what do you meaii?^^ 

Father, said Walter, ifc^s something about a lodger 
he has. There is a — young lady living there. Fve seen 
her two or three times. She has spoken to me even, think- 
ing, I suppose, that I was a gentleman who would not take 
any advantage. But the old man doesn't think so; he 
thinks I'm likely to do something dishonorable — to be a 
cad, or — I don't know what. You know whether I'm like- 
ly to be anything of the sort. If you have any confidence 
in me you will send him away — " 

A young lady!^^ Sir Edward exclaimed, with amaze- 
ment. 

And that's not just the whole of it, sir, as Mr. Walter 
tells you," said Crockford, put on his mettle. I'm not 
one as calls a young gentleman names; cad and such-like 
isn't words as come nat'ral to the likes of me. But as for 
being a lady, there ain't no ladies live in cottages like mine. 
I don't go against ladies — nor lasses neither, when they're 
good ims." 

What does all this mean: I think you are going out 
of your senses, Wat — both Crockford and you. Have you 
been rude to any one? — do you think he has been rude to 
any one? Holdyour tongue, Wat.1 Come, my man, speak 
out. I must know what this means. " 

It means that he is trying to make mischief — " 

It means, sir," said Crockford, in his slow, rural way, 
taking the words out of Waltei-'s mouth — I beg your 
pardon. Sir Edv^1ard. I don't know as I'm giving you the 
respect as is your due, though there's none — I'm bold to 
say it, be the other who he may — as feels more respect. 
It means just this. Sir Edward," he went on, advertised by 
an impatient nod that he must not lose more time, as 
there's mischief done, or will be, if you don't look into it, 
between this young gentleman — as is a gentleman born, 
sir, and your heir— and a little— a — a — " (Walter's fiery 
eye, and a certain threatening of his attitude, as if he might 
sjpring upon the accuser, changed Crockford's phraseology, 
even when the words were in his mouth) — a young per- 
son," he said, more quickly, as is not his equal, and 
never can be; as belongs to me, sir, and is no more a lady 
nor — nor my Martha, nor half as good a girl." 

Surprise made Sir Edward slow of understanding— sur- 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


267 


prise and ail absence of all alarm, for to his thinking 
Walter was a boy, and this talk of ladies, or young persons, 
was unintelligible in such a connection. 

He said, ‘‘ There is surely some strange mistake here. 
VValter^s — why, Walter is — too young for any nonsense of 
this kind. You’re — why, you must be — dreaming, Crock- 
ford! Y ou might as well tell me that Horry — ” 

Here Sir Edward’s eyes turned, quite involuntarily, un- 
intentionally upon Walter, standing up by the mantel-piece 
with his hands in his pockets, his face burning with a dull 
heat, his eyes cast down, yet watching under the eyelids 
every action of both his companions — a nameless air about 
him that spoke of guilt. He stopped short at tlie sight; 
everything in Walter’s aspect breathed guilt — the furtive 
watch he kept, the dull red of anger and shame burning 
like a fire in his face; the attitude— his hands in his pock- 
ets, clinched as if ready for a blow. The first look made 
Sir E(tward stop bewildered, the second carried to his mind 
a strange, painful, unpleasant, discovery. Walter was no 
longer a boy! He had parted company from his father, 
and from all his father knew of him. This perception 
flashed across his mind like a sudden light. He gasped, 
and could say no more. 

Crockford took ^advantage of the pause. If I may 
make so bold, sir,” he said, it’s you as hasn’t taken note 
of the passage of time. It ain’t wonderful. One moment 
your child here’s a boy at your knee, the next his heart’s 
set on getting married — or wuss. That’s how it goes. I’ve 
had a many children myself, and seen ’em grow up and 
buried most on ’em. Martha, she’s my youngest, she’^a 
good lass. As for the lads, ye can’t tell where ye are; one 
day it’s a peg-top and the next it’s a woman. If I may 
make so bold, I’ve known you man and boy for something 
like forty years; and I’m sorry for you, Sir Edward, that 1 
am. ” 

Sir Edward heard as if he heard it not, the iotcrdonm- 
msut of this raw rustic voice in his ears, and scarcely knew 
what it meant. He turned to his son without taking any 
notice. ‘‘Walter,” he said, with something keen, pene- 
trating, unlike itself in his voice, “ what is this? what is 
this? I don’t seem to understand it. ” He was going to be 
angry presently, very angry; but in the first place it was 
necessary that he should know. 

/ 


26S • 


A POOR GENTLEMAIS’. 


‘'Iwon^t deceive you, father/' said Walter. ‘'From 
his point of view I suppose he's right enough— but that is 
not my point of view." 

" Mr. Walter/' old Crockford said, beginning one of his 
sj)eeches. The old man in his patched coat of an inde- 
scribable color, the color of the woods and hedgerows, with 
his red handkerchief in a wisp round his neck, the lock of 
thin gray hair smoothed over his bald crown, his hat in his 
old knotted rugged hands, all knuckles and protrusions, 
came into Sir Edward's mind, as the companion figure 
leaning on the mantel-piece had done, like a picture all full 
of meaning; but he stopped the old man's slow discourse 
with a wave of his hand, and turned to his son, impatient- 
ly. He had not voice enough in his bewilderment to say, 
" Go on " — he said it with liis hand. 

" Well, sir?" said the lad, " I don't know what I have 
to say; there are things one man doesn't tell another, even 
if it's his father. There's nothing in me that is dislfbnora- 
hle, if that is what you mean. If there were, it is her eye 
I should shrink fi’om first of all." 

Her eye! The father stood confounded, not able to be- 
lieve his ears. He made one more attempt at a question, 
not with words, but with a half-stupefied look, again si- 
lencing Crockford with his hand. 

"I tell you, father," cried Walter, with irritation, 
“ there are things one man doesn't tell another, not even 
if — " He was pleased, poor boy, with that phrase; but the 
examination, the discovery was intolerable to him. He 
gave a wave of his hand toward Crockford, as if saying, 
" Question him — hear him — hear the worst of me!" with 
a sort of contemptuous indignation; then shot between the 
two other men like an arrow, and was gone. 

" Things one man doesn't tell to another, even if it's his 
father." One man to another! was it laughable, was it 
tragical? Sir Edward, in the confusion of his soul, could 
not tell. He looked at Crockford, but not for information; 
was it for sympathy? though the old stone-breaker was at 
one extremity of the world and he at the other. He felt 
himself shaking his head in a sort of intercommunion with 
old Crockford, and then stopped himself with a kind of 
angry dismay. 

" If you've anything to say on this subject, let me have 
it at once," he said. 


A POOR GEIS^TLEMAi?'. 


269 


I can talk more freely, sir, now as lie^s gone. That 
young gentleman is that fiery, and that deceived. The 
young uns is like that, Sir Edward; us as is older should 
make allowances, though now arid again a body forgets. 
I^m one that makes a deal of allowances myself, being a 
great thinker. Sir Edward, in my poor way. Well, sir, it’s 
this, sir — and glad I am as you’re by yourself and I can 
speak free. She’s nobody no more nor I am. She’s a lit- 
tle baggage, that’s what she is. How she come to me was^ 
this. A brother of mine, as has been no better than what 
you may call a rollin’ stone all his life, and has done a 
many foolish things, what does he do at last but marry a 
woman as had been a play-actress, and I don’t know what. 
They say as she was always respectable — I don’t know. 
And she had a daughter, this little baggage as is here, as 
was her daughter, not his, nor belonging to none of us. 
But her mother, she bothered me to ’ave ’er, to take her 
out of some man’s way as wanted to marry her, but his 
friends wouldn’t hear of it. And that’s how it is. How 
she came across Mr. Walter is more than I can tell. That’s 
justliow things happens, that is. You or me. Sir Edward, 
begging your pardon, sir, it’s a thing that don’t occur to 
the likes of us; but when a young gentleman is young and 
tender-hearted, and don’t know the world — The ways of 
Providence is past explaining,” Crockford said. 

Sir Edward stood with that habitual look in his face of 
a man injured and aggrieved, and full of a troubled yet 
mild remonstrance with fate, and listened to all this only 
half hearing it. He heard enough to understand in a dull 
sort of way what it was which had happened to his boy, a 
thing which produced upon him perhaps a heavier effect 
than it need have done by reason of the vagueness in which 
it was wrapped, the blurred and misty outlines of the facts 
making it so much more considerable. It was not what 
Crockford said it was, not the mere discovery that his son 
had got into a foolish entanglement,” as so many have 
done before him, with some village girl, that produced this 
effect upon him. It was Walter’s words so strangely dis-- 
locating-the connection between them, cutting the ground 
from under his feet, changing the very foundations of life; 
‘‘ things one man doesn’t tell to another” — one man! — to 
another. He kept saying it over in his mind with a be- 
wilderment that kept growing, a confusion which he could 


270 


A POOR GENTLEMAN*. 


not get right — one man, to another. It was this he was 
thinking of, and not what Crockford had said, when he 
went back to the dining-room, where all the children had 
finished breakfast, and his wife met him with a look so full 
of surprise. What has kept you, Edward? everything is 
cold. Have you sent Wat out for anything? Has any- 
thing happened?” she said. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MATERNAL DIPLOMACY. 

‘‘You had better send the children oif to play, and 
never mind if everything is cold. It^s my own fault; iPs 
the fault of circumstances.^'’ He seated himself at table as 
he spoke and helped himself to some of the cold bacon, 
which was not appetizing; nor had he much appetite. His 
face was full of care as lie swallowed his cup of tea, keep- 
ing an eye uneasily upon the children as they were grad- 
ually coaxed and led and pushed away. When the door 
closed upon the last of them there was still a moment of 
silence. Sir Edward trifled with his cold bacon, he crumbled 
his roll, he swallowed his tea in large abstract gulps; but said 
nothing, his mind being so full, yet so confused and out of 
gear. And it was not till his wife repeated her question, 
this time with a tone of anxiety, that he replied, 

“ What is it? It^s something that has taken me all 
aback, as you see. IPs — something about a woman. 

“ Something about a woman she repeated with the 
utmost astonishment; but had he said “ something about 
a cabbage,^ ^ Lady Penton could not have been less alarmed. 

“ Living at old CrockfoixPs,^'’ he went on. “ I doiiT 
understand the story. The old man talked and talked, 
and Waiter — ” 

“ What has Walter to do with it, Edward? He has gone 
out without any breakfast. Have you sent him to see after 
anything? Where has he gone?’^ 

“ Gone! is he gone? Why, he^s gone to her, I suppose; 
that^s the amusing thing. He says ‘ there ^s things one man 
doesiiT tell to another;^ one man!— that’s how Wat speaks 
to me, Annie.” He gave a laugh which was far from 
joyful. “ I think the boy’s gone off his head.” 

“ W^at says — I don’t know what you mean, Edward.” 


A POOR GENTLEMAi^. 


27i 


No more do I; it^s past understanding. It’s the sort 
of thing people talk of, but I never thought it would come 
in our way. It’s an entanglement with some girl in the 
village. Don’t you know what that means?” 

Edward!” cried the mother; and a flash of color like a 
flame passed over her face. She was confounded, and 
unable to make any comment even in her thoughts. 

‘‘You can’t take it in, and I don’t w^onder; neither can 
I, that know more of the world than you can do. Our 
l\'at, that has never seemed anything but a school-boy! 
Why, Horry will be saying presently, ‘ There are some 
things that one man doesn’t tell to — ’ I don’t know wdiat 
the world is coming to,” he cried, sharply.. When Sir 
Edward himself was taken by surprise he felt by instinct 
that .something sudden and unexpected must have occurred 
to the world. • 

Lady Pen ton was perhaps still more taken by surprise 
than her husband. But she did not make any observations 
against the world. The sudden flush faded from her face 
as she sat opposite to him, her astonished eyes still fixed 
upon him, her hands crossed in her lap. But a whole 
panorama instantly revealed itself before her mind. How’ 
could she have been so blind? .Walter had been absent 
continually, w^henever he could get an opportunity of steal- 
ing away. The reading in the evening, and a hundred 
little kindly oflSces which he had been in the habit of per- 
forming for his sisters, and with them, had all dropped, as 
she suddenly perceived. For weeks past he had been with 
them very little, taking little interest in the small family 
events, abstracted and dreamy, wrapped in a world of his 
owm. She saw it all now as by a sudden flash of enlighten- 
ment. “ Some things a man doesn't tell to another man ” 
— oh, no, not even to another woman, not to his mother! 
How strange, bewildering, full of confusion, and yet some- 
how how natural! This was not her. husband’s point of 
view. To him it was monstrous, a thing that never used 
to happen, an instance of the decay and degradation of the 
world. Lady Penton, though the most innocent of w^omen, 
did not feel this. To her, with a curious burst of under- 
standing, as if a new world had opened at her feet, it 
seemed natural, something which she ought to have ex- 
pected, something that expanded and widened out her own 
world of consciousness. Walter, then, her boy, loved 


272 


A POOR GE]SrTLEMA]N-. 


somebody. It brought .a renewed, fainter flush to her 
cheek, and a wonderfully tender light to her eyes. She 
thought of that first, before it occurred to her to think 
(all being the work of a moment) who it was who had 
opened this new chapter in her boy^s life, and made Walter 
a man, the equal of his father. Oh, that he should have 
become the equal of his father, a man, loving, drawing to 
himself the life of another, he who was only a boy! This; 
wonder, though it might have an acute touch in it, had also 
a curious sweetness. For Lady Penton was not the hunger- 
ing jealous mother of one child, but the soft expansive 
parent of many, and never had shut herself up in the hope 
of retaining them altogether for her own. 

It is very strange, she said, after a pause, it takes 
a good time to accustom onu^s self to such an idea (which 
was not the case, for she had tlone it in the flash of a mo- 
ment). ‘‘ It would be quite nice — and agreeable, she 
added, with some timidity, if it was'a— right person; but 
did you say, Edward — what did you sayr^^ 

Nice!^^ he cried, with an explosion like thunder, or so 
it seemed to his wife^'s ears, a little nervous with all that 
had happened. You can^t have listened to what I have 
been saying. I told you -plainly enough. A girl that has 
been living at old Crockford^s, a girl aut of the village — 
no, worse, much worse, sent down from London, to be out 
of some one^s way — 

Lady Penton had sprung to her feet, and came toward 
him with her hands clasped, as if praying for mercy. 

Oh! Edward, no, no, no; don’t say all that, Edward,^^ 
she cried. 

What am I to say? It^s all true so far as I know. 
You can ask Martha about her. Perhaps thaPs the best 
way; trust one woman to tell you the worst thaPs to be 
said of another. Yes, I think on the whole thaPs the best 
way. Have her up and let us hear — 

What!’^ said Lady Penton, call up Martha, and 
question her about a thing that Walter^s mixed up in? let 
her know that we are in trouble about our boy? make her 
talk about — about that sort of thing — before you ? I don^t 
know what sort of a woman you take me for, Edward. At 
all events, that is not what you would ever get me to do. 

He stared at her, only partially understanding — perhaps 
indeed not understanding at all, but feeling an obstacle 


A POOE GENTLEMAl^^. 


273 


vaguely shape itself in his path. ‘‘Annie/^ he said, 

there^s no room for sentiment here; whatever the girl is, 
she^s not a person that should ever have come in Walters’s 
way.^^ 

Upon which his mother, without any warning, began sud- 
denly to cry, a thing which was still more confusing to her 
husband; exclaiming by intervals, Oh! my Wat!’^ Oh! 
my poor boy! What did you say to him? You must have 
been harsh, Edward; oh, you must have been harsh; and 
to think he should have rushed out without any break- 
fast!^^ Lady Fenton sobbed and cried. 

It was not very long, however, before the mistress of the 
house, returning to tlie routine of domestic matters and 
with no trace of tears about her, though there was a new 
and unaccustomed look of anxiety in her eyes, found Mar- 
tha in the pantry, where she was cleaning the silver, and 
lingered to give her a few orders, especially in respect to 
the plate. Lady Fenton pointed out to her that she was 
using too much plate-powder, that she was not sufficient^ 
careful with the chasings and the raised silver of the edges, 
Avith various other important ]Dieces of advice, Avhich Martha 
took with some courtesies but not much satisfaction. Lady 
Fenton then made several remarks about the crystal which 
it would be impertinent to quote; and then she smoothed 
matters by asking Martha hoAv her mother was. I have 
not seen her for some time; I suppose she doesn^t go out 
in this cold weather, which is good for no on^^^ said Lady 
Fenton. 

Oh, my lady, there’s • worse things than the bad 
Aveather,” cried Martha. She Avas her father’s child, and 
apt, like him, to moralize. 

“ That is very true; but the bad weather is at the bottom 
of a great deal of rheumatism and bronchitis as Avell as 
many other things. ” 

Yes, my lady, but there’s things as you can’t have |he 
doctor to, and them’s the worst of all.” " 

I hope none of your brothers are a trouble to her, 
Martha; I thought they were all doing so well?” 

Oh, it ain’t none of the boys, my lady. It’s one as is 
nothing to us, not a blood relation at all. Father was 
telling master — or at least he come up a purpose to tell 
master, but I begged him not,” said the young woman. 


27i 


A POOR OEKTLEMAN. 


rubbing with redoubled energy. I said, ^father, what^s 
the good 

You are very right there, Martha; Sir Edward is only 
annoyed with complaints from the village; he can^t do any- 
thing. It is much better in such a case to come to me.”" 

Yes, my lady; I didn^t want them to trouble you 
neither. I told ^em her ladyship liad a deal to think of. 
You see, my lady, mother^s deaf, and things might go on — 
oh, they might go on to any length afore sheM hear.^^ 

I know she is deaf, poor thing,’ ^ Lady Penton said. 

That was why I didn’t w^ant her to take a lodger at 
all, my lady. But Emmy’s not a lodger after all. She’s 
a kind of relation. She’s Uncle Sam’s wife’s daughter, 
and she didn’t look like one as would give trouble. She’s 
just as nice spoken as any one could be, and said she was to 
help mother; and so she does, and alw^ays kind. Whatever 
father says she’s ahvays been kind — and that handy, turn- 
ing an old gown to look like new, and telling you how 
things is worn, and all wdiat you can see in the shops, and 
as good-natured with it all — ” 

Of whom are you speaking, Martha? Emmy, did you 
say? who is Emmy? I have never heard of her before.” 

She’s the young woman, my lady; oh I she’s the one — 
she’s the young person, she’s — it was her as father came to 
speak of, and wouldn’t hold his tongue or listen to me.” 

What is there to say about her? Sir Edward, I am 
afraid, did not understand. He has a great many things 
to think of. It would have been much better if your father 
had come to me. Who is she, and wdiat has she done?” 

Lady Penton spoke with a calm and composure that was 
almost too complete; but Martha w’^as absorbed in her own 
distress and suspected nothing of this. 

‘^Please, my lady,” she cried, with a courtesy, ‘^she 
have done nothing." She’s dreadful taking, that’s all. 
When- she gets talking, you could just stop tliere forever. 
It’s a great waste of time when you’ve a deal to do, but it 
ain’t no fault of hers. She makes you laugh, and she 
makes you cry, and though she don’t give herself no airs, 
she can talk as nice as any of the quality, as if she was 
every bit a lady— and the next moment the same as mother 
or like me. ’ ’ 

‘‘ She must be very clever,” said Lady Penton. Is she 
pretty, too?” 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


275 

I doii^t know as I should have taken no notice of her 
looks but for other folks a-talking of them/^ said Martha. 
‘‘ I don’t know as I sees her any different from other folks; 
but as for good nature and making things pleasant, there 
ain’t none like her high nor low.” 

And what is she doing here: and why did your father 
come to Sir Edward about her?” said Lady Penton, in her 
magisterial calm. 

‘°Oh, my lady, you’ll not be pleased; I’d rather not tell 
you. When father does notice a thing he’s that suspicious! 
I’d rather not — oh, I’d rather not!” 

‘‘ This is nonsense, Martha — you had much better tell 
me. What has this girl been doing that Sir Edward ought 
to know?” 

Martha twisted her fingers together in overwhelming em- 
barrassment. 

Oh, my lady, don’t ask me! I could not bear to tell 
you — and you’d not be pleased.” 

‘‘ Wliat have I to do with it, my good girl?” said Wal- 
ter’s mother, as steadily as if she had been made of marble; 
and then she added, but after, hearing so much I must 
know. You had better tell me. I may perhaps be of use 
to her, poor thing!” 

Oh, my lady. Sir Edward’ll tell you. Oh, what have I 
got to do pushing into it! Oh, if you’re that kind, my 
lady, and not angry!” Here Martha paused, and took a 
supreme resolution. It’s all father’s doing, though I say 
it as shouldn’t. He thinks as Mr. Walter — oh, my lady, 
Mr. Walter’s like your ladyship — he’s that civil and kind!” 

‘^I am glad you think so, Martha. ‘‘Gentlemen are 
very different from ns; they don’t think of things that 
come into every woman’s mind. I shall be angry, indeed, 
if you keep me standing asking questions. What has all 
this to do with my son?” 

‘‘It’s all father’s ways of thinking. There’s nothing in 
it — not a thing to talk about. It’s just this — as Mr. Wal- 
ter has seen Emmy a time or two at the cottage door. And 
he’s said a civil word. And Emmy is one as likes to talk 
to gentlefolks, being more like them in herself than the 
likes of us. And so — and so — father’s taken things into 
his head — as he did, my lady,” cried Martha, with a blush 
and a sudden bhange of tone, “ about John Baker and me. ” 

“ About John Baker and you?” 


270 


A POOH GEIS^TLEMAK. 


Yes, my lady,’' cried Martha, very red; and there's 
no more truth in it the one nor the other. Can't a girl 
say a word but it's brought 1123 against her, like as it was a 
sin? or give a civil answer but it's said as she's keei^ing 
company? It ain't neither just nor right. It's as unkind 
as can be. It's just miserable livin' where there's naught 
but folks suspecting of you all round." 

‘^Martha, is that how your father treated John Baker 
and you? I think you're hard upon your father. He be- 
haved very well about that, and you know you were your- 
self to blame. This that you tell me is all nonsense, to be 
sure. I will speak to Mr. Walter." She paused a little, 
and then asked, This Emmy that you tell me of — is she 
a nice girl?" 

Oh, yes, my lady. " 

Is she one that gives a civil answer, as you say, who- 
ever talks to her?" 

Oh, yes, my lady." 

'Not particularly to young men?" 

Oh, no, my lady," said Martha, with vehemence, her 
countenance flaming red, like the afternoon sun. 

If that is all true," said Lady Penton, you may be 
sure she shall have a friend in me. But I hope it is all 
true." 

‘‘As sure as — oh, as sure as the catechism or the prayer- 
book! Oh, my lady, as sure as I'm speaking; and I 
wouldn't deceive your ladyship — no, I wouldn't deceive 
you, not for nothing in the world!" 

“ Except in respect to John Baker," said Lady Penton, 
with a smile; at which Martha burst out crying over the 
silver that she had been cleaning, and made her plate- 
powder no better than a puddle of reddish mud. 

This led -Lady Penton, to make a few more observations 
on the subject with which she had begun the conversation; 
and then she went away. But if Martha was left weeping 
her mistress did not carry a light heart out of the pantry, 
where she had got so much information. The picture of 
the village siren was not calculated to reassure a mother. 
She had thought at first that Martha was an enemy, and 
ready to give the worst version of the story; and then it 
had turned out that Martha herself was on the side of the 
girl who had fascinated Walter. Had she fascinated Wal- 
ter? Was it possible — a girl at a cottage door — a girl who 


A POOR gentlemait: 


277 


— ^gave a civil answer? Lady Penton^s imagination rebelled 
against this description; it rebelled still more at the com- 
parison with John Baker, with whom Martha herself had 
gone through a troublous episode. Walter Penton like 
John Baker! She tried to smile, but her lips quivered a 
little. What was this new thing that had fallen into the 
peaceful family all in a moment like a bomb full of fire 
and trouble? She could not get rid of the foolish picture — 
the girl at the cottage door, smiling on whosoever passed, 
with her civil answer; and Walter — her AValter, her first- 
born, the heir of Penton — Walter caught by that vulgar 
snare as he passed by! Had it been a poor lady, the curate^s 
daughter, the immaculate governess of romance — but the 
girl whose conversation was so captivating to Martha, who 
described what things were worn, and all that you could see 
in the shops — and then, with a smile at the cottage door, 
caught the unwary boy to whom every girl was a thing to 
be respected. Martha^s little bubble of tears in the pantry 
were nothing to the few salt drops that came to her mis- 
tresses eyes. But Lady Penton went afterward to the book- 
room and told her husband that, so far as she could make 
out, old Crockford must have made a mistake. Martha 
gives a very good account of the girl,e' she said, ‘"and 
Walter, nclfdoubt, had only talked to her a little, meaning 
no harm.V 

‘‘He would not have answered me as he did this morn- 
ing if there had been no harm,^^ said Sir Edward, shaking 
his head. 

“ You must have been harsh with him,"^ said his wife. 

You must have looked as if you believed Crockford, and 
not him.^^ 

“ 1 was not harsh; am I ever harsh? cried the injured 
father. 

“Edward, the boy darted out without any breakfast! 
How is he to go through the day without any breakfast? 
W ould he have done that if you had not been harsh to 
him?^^ Lady Penton said. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

WAITING. 

The day was a painful one to all concerned: to the fa- 
ther and mother, who knew, though vaguely, all about it. 


27S 


A POOR GEJS^TLEMAN. 


and to the children who knew only that something was 
wrong, and that it was’VV^alter who was in fault, a thing 
incomprehensible, which no one could understand. The 
girls felt that they themselves might have gone a little 
astray, that they could acknowledge as possible; but 
Walter! what could he have done to upset the household, 
to make the father so angry, the mother so sad? — to rush 
out himself upon the world without his breakfast? That 
little detail affected their* minds perhaps the most of all. 
The break of every tradition and habit of life was thus 
punctuated with a sharpness that permitted no mistake. 
He had gone out without any breakfast — rushing, driving 
the gravel in showers from liis angry feet. When the time 
of the midday repast came round there was a painful 
expectancy in the house. He must return to dinner, they 
said to themselves. But Walter did not come back for 
dinner. He was not visible all day. The girls thought 
they saw him in the distance when they went out discon- 
solately for a walk in the afternoon, feeling it their duty to 
Mab. Oh, why was she there, a stranger in the midst of 
their trouble! They thought they saw him at the top of 
the steep hill going up from the house to the village. But 
though they hurried, and Anne ran on in advance, by the 
time she got to the top he was gone and not a trace of him 
was to be seen. Their hearts were sadly torn between this 
unaccustomed and awful cloud of anxiety and the duties they 
owed to their guest. And still more dreadful was it when 
the Penton carriage came for Mab wdth a note only, telling 
her to do as she pleased, to stay for a few days longer if she 
pleased. Oh, may I stay?^^ she asked, wdth a confidence 
in their kindness which was very flattering, but at that mo- 
ment more embarrassing than words could say. The two 
girls exchanged a guilty look, while Lady Penton replied, 
faltering: ‘‘ My dear! it is very sweet of you to wish it. If 
it will not be very dull for you — ‘‘ Oh, dull!^^ said 
Mab, with Ally and Anne, and all the children: and at 
Penton there is nobody!^^ A frank statement of this sort, 
though it may be selfish, is flattering; indeed, the selfish- 
ness which desires your particular society is always flatter- 
ing. None of them could say a word against it. They 
could not tell their visitor that she was — oh, so sadly! — in 
their way, that they could not talk at their ease before her; 
and that to be compelled to admit her into this new and 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


279 


unlooked-for family trouble was such a thing as made the 
burden miserable, scarcely to be borne. All this was in 
their hearts, but they could not say it. They exchanged a 
look behind backs, and Lady Penton repeated, with a faint 
quaver in her voice, My dear! Of course, we shall be 
only too glad to have you if you think it will not be dull. 
When Mab ran to write her note and announce her inten- 
tion to remain, the three ladies felt like conspirators stand- 
ing together in a little circle, looking at each other dole- 
fully. ‘‘ Oh, mother, why didiiT you say they must want 
her at Penton, and that we did not want her herer^^ 

Hush, girls!. Poor little thing, when she is an orphan, 
and so fond of you all; though 1 wish it had been another 
time, Lady Penton said with a sigh. They seized her, 
one by each arm, almost surrounding her, in their close em- 
brace. Mother, what has Wat doner Mother, what is it 
about Wat?"^ ‘^Oh, hush, hush, my dears !^^ And Lady 
Penton added, disengaging herself with a smile to meet 
Mab, who came rushing into the room in great spirits, I 
think as long as the daylight lasts you ought to have your 
walk. It was after this that the girls thought they saw 
Walter, but could not find any trace of him when they 
reached the top of the hill. 

There had never been any mystery, any anxiety, save in 
respect to the illnesses that break the routine of life with 
innocent trouble which anybody may share, in this innocent 
household. To make excuses for an absent member, and 
account for his absence as if it were the most natural thing 
in the world — not to show that you start at every opening 
of the door, to refrain heroically from that forlorn watch 
of the window, that listening for every sound which anxiety 
teaches: to talk and smile even when there are noises, a stir 
outside, a summons at the door that seems to indicate the 
wanderer’s return — how were they to have that science of 
trouble all in a moment? Lady Penton leaped to its very 
heights at once. She sat there as if all her life she had 
been going through that discipline, talking to Mab, survey- 
ing the children, neglecting nothing, while all the while 
her heart was in her ears, and she heard before any one 
the faintest movement outside. They were all very silent 
at table. Sir Edward making no attempt to disguise the fact 
that he was out of humor and had nothing to say to any 
one, while the girls exchanged piteous looks and kept up 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


£80 

an anxious telegraphic communication. But Walter never 
appeared. Neither to dinner, neither in the evening did he 
return — the two meals passed without him, his place 
vacant, staring in their faces, as Anne said. Where was 
her What could he be doing? Into what depth of trouble 
and misery must a boy have fallen who darts out of his fa- 
ther’s house without any breakfast, and, so far as can be 
known, has nothing to eat all day? AVhere could he go to 
have any dinner? What could have happened to him? 
These words express the entire disorganization of life, the 
end of all things in a family point of view, which this dread- 
ful day meant to Walter’s sisters, and to his mother in a 
less degree. Nothing else that could have been imagined 
would have reached their hearts in the same way. And 
the last aggravation was given by the fact that all this 
which they felt so acutely to imply the deepest reproach 
against Walter was apparent to little Mab, sitting there 
with her little smiling face as if there was no trouble in the 
world. Oh, it was far better, no doubt, that she should 
suspect nothing, that she should remain in her certainty, 
so far as Penton Hook was concerned, that there was no 
trouble in the world! But her face, all tranquil and at 
ease, her easy flow of talk, her questions, her commentaries, 
as if life were all so simple and anybody could understand 
it! The impatience which sometimes almost overcame all 
the powers of self-control in Ally and in Anne, can not be 
described. They almost hated Mab’s pretty blue eyes, and 
her comfortable, innocent, unsuspecting smile. Had any 
one told them that little Mab, that little woman of the 
world, was very keenly alive to everything that was going 
on, and had formed her little theory, and believed herself 
to know quite well what it was all about, the other girls 
would have rejected such an accusation with disdain. 

It was quite late, after everything was over, the children 
all in bed, all the noises of the house hushed and silent, 
when Walter came home. The family were sitting together 
in the drawing-room, very dull, as Lady Penton had fore- 
warned the little guest they would be. She herself had 
suggested a game of' besique, which she was ready to have 
played had it been necessary: but Ally and Anne could not 
for shame let their mother take that rude and arduous task 
in hand. So this little group of girls had gathered round 
the table, a pretty contrast in their extreme freshness and 


A POOE GEKTLEMAN. 


281 


youthfulness. The gravity of this, to her, terrible and 
unthought-of crisis, the horror of what might be happp- 
ing, threw a shade upon Ally’s passive countenance which 
suited it. She was very pale, her soft eyes cast down, a 
faint movement about her mouth. She might have burst 
out crying over her cards at any moment in the profound 
tension of her gentle spirit. Anne was diiferent; the ex- 
citement had gone to her head, all her faculties were sharp- 
ened; she had the look of a gambler, keen and eager on 
her game, though her concentrated attention was not on 
that at all. She held her head erect, her slender shoulders 
thrown back, her breath came quickly through her slightlj 
opened lips. Mab was just as usual, with her pretty com- 
l^lexion and her blue eyes, laughing, carrying on a little 
babble of remark. A royal marriage! Oh, Anne, what 
luck !” Another card, please — yes, I will have another.” 
Her voice was almost the only one that disturbed the 
silence. Lady Fenton in her usual place was a little indis- 
tinct in the shade. She had turned her head from the 
group, and her usually busy hands lay clasped in her lap. 
She was doing nothing but listening. Sometimes even she 
closed her eyes, that nothing might be subtracted from 
her power of hearing. Her husband, still further in the 
background, could not keep still. Sometimes he would sit 
down for a moment, then rise again and pace about, or 
stand before the bookshelves as if looking for a book; but 
he wanted no book — he could not rest. 

And then in the midst of the silence of the scene came 
the sounds that rang into all their hearts. The gate with 
its familiar jar across the gravel, the click of the latch, 
then the step, hurried, irregular, making the gravel fly. 
Lady Fenton did not move, nor did Sir Edward, who stood 
behind her, as if he had been suddenly frozen in the act of 
walking, and could not take- another step. Ally’s cards 
fell from her hands and had to be gathered from the floor 
with a little scuffle and confusion, in the midst of which 
they were all aware that the hall door was pushed open, 
that the step came in and hurried across the hall up- 
stairs and to Walter’s room, the door of which closed 
with a dull echo that ran through all the house. Their 
hearts stood still; and then sudden ease diffused itself 
throughout the place — relief — something that felt like hap- 
piness. He had come back! In a moment more the girls’ 


2S2 


A POOR GENTLEMANS". 


voices rose into soft laughter and talk. What more was" 
wanted? Wat had come back. As long as he was at home^ 
within those protecting walls, what could go wrong? Oh, 
what a fright we have had/^ said Aliya’s eyes, with tears in 
them, to those of Anne; but now it’s all over! He has: 
come back."” 

The parents looked at each other in the half light under 
the shade of the lamp. When Walter’s door closed up- 
stairs Sir Edward made a step forward as if to follow to his 
son’s room, but Lady Penton put up her hand to check 
him. “Don’t,"’ she said, under Her breath. It still 
seemed to her tliat her husband must have been harsh. 
“ Some one must S2)eak to him,” said Sir Edward, in tlie 
same tone; “this can not be allowed to go on. ” “Oh, 
no, no; go on! oh, no, it can’t go on.” “ What do yon 
mean, Annie?” cried her husband, leaning over her chair. 
“ Do you think I should take no notice after the dreadful 
day we have spent, and all on his account?” “ No, no,” 
she said, in a voice which was scarcely audible; “ no, no.” 
“ What am I to do, then — what ought I to do? I don’t 
want to risk a scene again, but to say ‘ no, no,’ means noth- 
ing. What do you think I should do?” 

She caught his hand in hers as he leaned over her chair,, 
their two heads were close together. “ Oh, Edward, you’ve 
always been very good to me,” she said. 

“ What nonsense, Annie! good to you! we’ve not been 
two, we’ve been one; why do you speak to me so?” 

“ Edward/’ she whispered, leaning back her middle-aged 
head upon his middle-aged shoulder. “ Oh, Edward, this 
once let me see him. I know the father is the first. It’s 
right you should be the first; but, Edward, this once let 
me see him, let me speak to him. He might be softer to 
his mother.” 

There was a pause, and he did not know himself, still 
less did she know, whether he was to be angry or to yield. 
He had perhaps in his mind something of both. He de- 
tached his hand from hers with a little sharpness, but he 
said, “Go, then: you are right enough; perhaps you will 
manage him better than I.” 

She went softly out of the room, while the girls sat over 
their cards in the circle of the lamplight. They had not 
paid much attention to the murmur of conversation belxind 
them. They thought she had gone to see about some sup- 


A POOR GE^^TLEMAN. 


283 


per for Walter, who had probably been fasting all day, an 
idea which had also entered Aliyas mind as a right thing to 
do; but mother, they knew, would prefer to do it herself. 
She did not, however, in the first place, think of Walter^s 
supper. She went up the dim staircase, where there was 
scarcely any light, not taking any candle with her, and 
made her way along the dark passage to Walter ^s door. He 
had no light, nor was there any sound as she opened the 
door softly and went in. Was it possible he was not there? 
The room was all dark, and not a murmur in it, not even 
the sound of breathing. A dreadful chill of terror came 
over Lady Penton^s heart. She said with a trembling 
voice, ‘‘ Walter, Walter with an urgent and frightened 
cry. 

There was a sound of some one turning on the bed, and 
Walter’s voice said out of the dark in a muffled and sullen 
tone, “What do 3^011 want, mother? I thought here I 
might have been left in peace!” 

“ What!” she cried, “ in peace. Is this how 3"ou speak 
to me? Oh, my boy, where have you been?” 

“ It can’t matter much where I’ve been. I’ve been do- 
ing no harm.” 

“ Ko, dear. I never thought }"ou had,” said his mother, 
groping her way to the bedside and sitting down by him. 
She put out her hand till it reached where his head was 
lying. His forehead was hot and damp, and he put her 
hand away fretfully. 

“You forget,” he said, “I’m not a baby now.” 

“You are always my boy, Wat, and will be, however old 
you may grow. If your father was harsh he did not mean 
it. Oh, why did you rush away like that without any 
breakfast? Walter, tell me the truth, have you had any- 
thing to eat? have you had some dinner? Tell me the 
truth.” 

There was a pause, and then he said, “ I forget: is that 
all 3^ou think of, mother?” 

“ Xo, AVat, not all I think of, but I think of that too. 
If I bring you up something will you eat it, Wat?” 

“ For pity’s sake let me alone,” he said, pettishly, “ and 
go away.” 

“ Walter!” 

“ Let me alone, mother, for to-night. I can’t say an}’- 


284 


A POOR GEi^TLEMAlH’. 


thing to-night. I came to bed on purpose to be quiet; 
leave me alone for to-night. ’ ^ 

‘‘ If I do, Wat, you will hear us, you will not turn your 
back upon us to-morrow.^ 

Good-night, mother,^'’ said the lad. 

He turned his head away^ but she bent over him and 
kissed his hot cheek. I will tell your father he is not to 
say an3ahing. And I will leave you, since you want me. 
But you will take the advice of your best friends to-mor- 
row, Wat.^"^ 

Good-night, mother, he said again, and turned his 
flushed and shamefaced cheek to respond, since it was in 
the dark, to her kiss. 

Wat, there is nobody in the world can love you as we 
-do. God bless you, my dear, she said. 

And listening in the dark, he heard the faint sound of 
her soft footsteps receding, passing away into the depths of 
the silent house, leaving him not silent, not quiet, as he 
said, but with a wild world of intentions and impulses 
whirling within him, all agitation, commotion, revolution 
to his finger-ends. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 
POOR Walter! 

Whejst Walter, in ungovernable excitement, trouble, and 
impatience, rushed out of the house in the morning, leav- 
ing old Crockford to make he knew not what revelations to 
his father, he had no idea either what he was going to do, 
or how long it might be before he returned home. It might 
have been that he was leaving the Hook —his birthplace, 
the only home he had ever known — for years. He might 
never see all these familiar things again— the pale river 
winding round the garden, the poplar-tree, thin and naked, 
in the wind, the little multitude in the dining-room mak- 
ing a hum and murmur of voices as he darted past. In his 
imagination he ,saw so clearly that breakfast-table — his 
mother dividing to each of the children their proper share. 
Ally and Anne, and little Molly, with her spoon, making 
flourishes, and calling, Fader, fader!^^ He saw them all 
with the distinctness of inward vision as he darted away, 
though his mind was full of another image. The pang with 


A POOR GEKTLEMAJf. 


285 


V 

which, even in the heat of liis liight, he realized that he 
was going away, lay in the background of his heart, as 
that picture was in the background of his imagination; 
foremost was the idea of seeing her at once, of telling her 
that all was over here, and that he was ready to fly to the 
end of the world if she would but come with him, and that 
all should be as she pleased. He had forgotten the sugges- 
tion of last night about the oath which he would have to 
take as to his age. ^N'othing was apparent to him except 
that his secret- was betrayed, that all was over, that she 
alone remained to him, and that notliing now stood between 
him and her. He rushed up the hill to the cottage, feeling 
that reserves and concealments were no longer necessary, 
that the moment of decision was come, and that there must 
be no more delay. He would not wait any longer patroling 
about the house till she should see him from a window or 
hear his signal. He went up to the cottage door and 
knocked loudly. He must see her, and that without a mo- 
ment’s delay. 

It seemecl to Walter that he stood a long time knocking 
at the cottage door. He heard the sound of many goings 
and comings witliin, so that it was not because they were 
absent that he was not admitted. At last the door was 
opened suddenly by old Mrs. Crookford, who was deaf, and 
who made no answer to his demand except by shaking her 
head and repeating the quite unnecessary explanation that 
she was hard of hearing, backed by many courtesies and 
inquiries for the family. 

My master^s out, Mr. Walter — Crockford^s not in, sir; 
he^s gone to work, as he allays does. Shall I send him, 
sir, to the •’ouse when he comes in to ^is dinner?^ ^ she said, 
with many bobs and hopes as how her ladyship and all the 
family were well. 

Whether this was all she knew, or whether the old wom- 
an was astute, and brought her infirmity to the aid of her 
wits, he could not tell. 

I want to see your niece, he said — your niece — your 
niece Emmy: I want to see Emmy,^^ without eliciting any 
further reply than, My master^s out, Mr. Walter, and I^m 
a little '’ard of ^earing, sir. 

He raised his voice so that she must have heard him, and 
surely, surely, in the condition in which things were, ought 
to have answered him! But perhaps she was anxious to 


286 


A POOK GEXTLEMAX. 


keep up appearances still. He said, in his loudest voice, 
I am leaving home; I must see her;’^ but even this pro- 
duced no response: and at last he was obliged to go away, 
feeling as if all the machinery of life had come to a stand- 
still, and that nothing remained for him to do. He had 
abandoned one existence, but the other did not take him 
up. He roamed about, for he scarcely knew how long, till 
the wintery sun was high in the sky, then came back, and, 
in the audacity of despair — for so he felt it— -knocked 
again, this time softly, disguising his impatience, at the 
cottage door. He had acted wisely, it appeared, for she 
herself opened to him this time, receding from the door 
with a startled cry when she saw who it was. But this 
time he would not be^ put oft'. He followed her into the 
little room in front, which was a kind of parlor, adorned 
by the taste of Martha and her mother, cold, with its little 
fire-place decked out in cut paper, and the blind drawn 
down to protect it from the sun. He caught sight of a 
box, which seemed to be half packed, and which she closed 
hastily and pushed away. 

She turned upon him whon he had follow^ed inside this 
room, with an angry aspect that made poor Walter trem- 
ble. Why do you hunt me down like this?^^ she cried; 

couldn^t you see I didn’t want you when you came this 
morning pushing your way into the house? Though it^s a 
cottage, stilJ it"s my castle if I want to be private here!^^ 

“ Emmy!^^ cried the youth, with the keenest pang of 
misery in his voice. 

Why do you call out my name like that? You objected 
to what "l told you last night. Go away now. I don^t 
want to have anything to say to a man that objects to my 
plans as if 1 didiiT know what^s right and what^s wrong 
I object to nothing,''^ said the boy. You sent me 
away from you, you gave me no time to think. And now 
my father knows everything, and I have left home; I shall 
never go back any more.'^ 

Left home! And how does your father know every- 
thing? And what is there to know?^^ 

Nothing!"^ cried Walter — '' nothing, except that I am 
yours, heart and soul — except that I desire nothing, think 
of nothing, but you. And they had never heard of you be- 
fore 

She closed the door and pushed a chair toward him. 


A POOR GENTLEMAK. 


2S7 


‘‘ How did they know about mer — what do tliey know now? 
Was it you that told them? And what do they think she 
cried, with a slight breathlessness that told of excitement. 

Poor Walter was glad to sit down, he was faint and 
weary; that rush out-of-doors into the frosty air without 
any breakfast, which had affected the imaginations of his 
family so much, had told on him. He felt that thej’e was 
no strength in him, and that he was glad to rest. 

It was old Crockford who told them,^^ he said. ‘‘ He 
came in upon me this mornipg like a — like a w^olf : and 
my father of course heard, and’came to see what it was. 

‘‘ Oh/^ she said, in a tone of disappointment, not with- 
out contemj^t in it, ‘‘ so it w^as not you! I thought per- 
haps, being so overwhelmed by what I said, you had gone 
right off and told your mother, as a good boy should. So 
it was only old Crockford: and I gave you the credit! But 
I might have known, she added, with a laugh, “ you had 
not the courage for that!^^ 

“ Courage! I did not think of it,*^^ he said. “ It did nob 
seem a thing to tell them. How was I to do it? And 
Crockford came — I don^t know w^hat for — to forbid me the 
house. 

“ j^o; but to drive me out of it!^^ she said, with a look 
which he did not understand. “ So you hadn^t the cour- 
age,^'’ she said. “ You have not much courage, Mr. Wal- 
ter Penton, to be such a fine young man. You come here 
night after night, and you pretend to be fond of me. But 
when it comes to the point you daren^t say to your father 
and mother straight out, ‘ Here^s a girl I^m in love with, 
and I w^ant to marry her. 1^11 do it as soon as Ihn old 
enough, whether you like it or not; but if you were nice, 
and paid a little attention to her, it would be better for us 
all.^ That is what I should have said in your place. But 
you hadn’t the heart, no more than you’d have had the 
heart to run a little risk about your age and say you were 
six months older than you are. That’s like a man! You 
expect a girl to run every risk, to trust herself to you and 
her whole life; but to do anything that risks your own 
precious person, oh, no! You have not the heart of a 
mouse; you have not the courage for that!” 

She spoke with so much vehemence, her eyes flashing, 
the color rising in her cheeks, that Walter could not say a 
word in his defense — and, besides, what was there to say? 


288 


A POOR GENTLEMAN?'. 


So far was he from having the courage to broach the sub- 
ject in his own person, that when it had been begun by 
Crockford he had not been able to bear it, but had rushed 
away. He sat silent while she thus burst forth upon him, 
gazing at her as she towered over him in her indignation. 
He had seldom seen her in daylight, never so close, and 
never in this state of animation and passion. His heart 
was wrung, but his imagination was on fire. She was a 
sort of warrior-maiden — a Britomart, a Olorinda. Her 
eyes blazed. Her lip, which was so full of expression, 
quivered with energy. To think that any one should dare 
to think her beneath them! — of a lower sphere! — which was 
what he supposed his own family would do when they knew; 
whereas she was a kind of goddess — a creature made of fire 
and flame. To brave his father, with her standing by to 
back him; to deceive a registrar — about a miserable mat- 
ter of age — six months more or less — what did these mat- 
ter? What did anything matter in comparison with her? 
— in comparison with pleasing her, with doing what she 
wished to be doner He was a little afraid of her as she 
stood there, setting the very atmosphere on fire. If she 
ever belonged to him, became his familiar in every act of 
his life, might there not arise many moments in which he 
should be afraid of what she might think or say? This 
thought penetrated him underneath the fervor of admira- 
tion in his soul, but it did not daunt him or make him 
pause. 

He said, It is true I did not tell my father first. It did 
not come into my head. I can^t be sure now that it^s the 
thing to do. But, when Crockford said what he did I told 
him it was so. It is the first time, said Walter, with a 
little emotion, that I ever set myself against my father. 
It may come easier afterward, but it^s something to do it 
the first time. Perhaps youA'e never done it, though you 
are braver than I. ^ ^ 

She laughed loudly with a contempt that hurt him. 

Never done it! Never done anything else, you mean! 
I never got on with my mother since I was a baby; and fa- 
ther, I never had any — at least I never saw him. Well! so 
you spoke up boldly, and said — what did you say?^^ 

Oh, don^t bother mel^Mie cried. How can I tell 
what I said? And now I^^e come away. I have left home. 


A POOR GEXTLEMAiT. 289 

Emmy. I am ready to go with you, dear, anywhere — if 
you like, to the end of the world. 

I^"e no wish for that,^’’ she said, with a softer laugh. 
I’m going to London; that’s quite enough for me.” 

Well,” cried the lad, I’ll go with you there; and all 
can be settled — everything — as you will. It can be nothing 
wrong that is done for you. ” 

^^Oh, you’re thinking of the license again,” she said; 
never mind that. I’ve been thinking too; and you can’t 
have your money till you’re twenty-one, don’t you know? 
Swearing will do you no good there — they want certificates 
and all sorts of things. And of course you can’t go to the 
end of the world, or even to London, without any money. 
So you must just wait and see what happens. Perhaps 
something will take place before then that will clear you 
altogether from me.” 

He listened to the first part of this with mingled calm 
and alarm. To wait these six months, could he have seen 
her every day, would not have disturbed Walter much, 
notwithstanding the blaze of boyish passion which had 
lighted up all the world to him. The idea of a new life, 
an entire revolution of all the circumstances round him, 
and the tremendous seriousness of marriage, had given him 
a thrill of almost alarm. It was a plunge which he was 
ready to take, and yet which appalled him. And when she 
said that he could not have his money till he was twenty- 
one, a sensation half of annoyance, yet more than half of 
content, came over his soul. He could bear it well enough 
if only he could see her every day: but when she added that 
threat about the possibility of something happening, Wal- 
ter’s heart jumped up again in his breast. 

What can happen?” he said. Dear, nothing shall 
happen. If you are going to London I’ll go too — I must 
be near where you are — I’ve no home to go back to. Lon- 
don will be the best; it’s like the deep sea, everybody says. 
Nobody will find me there.” 

You must not be too sure of that. Sir Edward Pen- 
ton’s son could be found anywhere. They will put your 
arrival in the papers, don’t you know? ^ At Mivart’s, Mr. 
Walter Penton, from the family seat.’ ” She broke off 
with a laugh. Walter, gazing at her, was entirely unaware 
what she meant. The fashionable intelligence of the news- 
papers, though his mother might possibly give an eye to it, 

4— 2d half. 


290 


A POOR GENTLEMA}^. 


was a blank to him; and when she met his serious impas- 
sioned look, the girl herself was aifected by it. It was so 
completely sincere and true that her trifling nature was 
impressed in spite of everything. She despised him in 
many ways, though she was not without a certain liking 
for, him. She was contemptuous of his ignorance, of the 
seif-abandonment which made him ready to follow her 
wherever she went, even of his passion for herself. Emmy 
was very philosophical, nay, a little cynical in her views. 
She was ready to say and believe that there were many 
prettier girls than herself within Walter’s reach, and the 
idea that he cared for anything but her prettiness did not, 
occur to this frank young woman. But the look of abso- 
lute sincerity in the poor boy’s eyes touched her in spite of 
herself. She put her hands on his shoulders with a mo- 
mentary mute caress, which meant sudden appreciation, 
sudden admiration, like that with, which an elder sister 
might have regarded the generous impulse of a boy: then 
withdrew laughing from the closer approach which Walter, 
blushing to his hair, and springing to his feet, ventured 
upon in response. No, no,” she cried, run away now. 
You can come back later; I’m very busy, I’ve got my 
packing to look after, and a hundred things to do — there’s 
a dear boy, run away now. ” 

am not a boy, at least not to you,” he cried, not 
to you; you must not send me away.” 

“ But I must, and I do. How can I get my things ready 
with you hanging about? Eun away, run away, do; and 
you can come back later, after it’s dark — not till after it’s; 
dark. And then — and then — ” she said. 

He obeyed her after awhile, moved by the vague beati- 
tude of that anticipation. And then — ” Nothing but 
the highest honor and tenderness was in the young man’s 
thoughts. He did not know indeed what to do when he 
should reach London with that companion, where he could 
take her, how arrange matters for her perfect security and 
welfare until the moment when he should be able to make 
her his wife. But somehow, either by her superior knowl- 
edge, or by that unfailing force of pure and honest purpose 
which. Walter felt must always find the right way, this 
should be done. He went away from her cheered and in- 
spired. But when he had got out of sight of the cottage he 
was not clear what to do for the long interval that must 


A POOR GEKTLEMAN. 291 

elapse; home he could not go — where should he gor He 
thought oyer the question with the icy blast in his face as 
he turned toward the east. And then he came to a sudden 
resolution, not indeed consciously inspired by Emmy, but 
which came from her practical impulse. In another mood, 
at another stage, her suggestion about his money might 
have shocked and startled him. It seemed now only a 
proof of her superior wisdom and good sense, the perfection 
of mind which he felt to be in her as well as the sweetness 
of manner and speech, the feeling, the sentiment, all the 
fine qualities for which he gave her credit, and for which 
he adored her, not only for the beauty in which alone she 
believed. And if he was about to do this bold and splen- 
did thing, to carry off the woman he loved, and marry her. 
by whatever means — and are not all means sanctified by 
love? — surely, certaiidy, whatever else might be necessary, 
he would want moirey. Having made up his mind on 
this point, Walter buttoned his coat, and set off for Head- 
ing like an arrow from a bow. There he managed to dine 
with great appetite, which would have been a comfort to 
his mother had she known it, and had an interview with 
Mr. Hochford, the solicitor, on the subject of the money 
which had been left to him (as he preferred to think) by 
old Sir Walter, the result of wEich was that he got with 
much ease a sum of fifty pounds (to Walter a fortune in 
itself), with which in his pocket he walked back with a 
tremendous sense of guilty elation, excitement, and trouble. 
He lingered on the road until after dark, as she had said, 
until, as he remembered so acutely, the hour of the evening 
meal at home, when the family would be all gathering, 
and every one asking. Where is Wat? He had rebelled 
before against the coercion of that family meal. This time 
it drew him with a kind of lingering desire which he re- 
sisted, he who before had half despised himself for obeying 
the habit and necessity of it. He went to his old post un- 
der the hedge, not knowing whether Emmy wished her 
departure with him to be known. For himself he did not 
care. If everybody he knew were to appear, father and 
mother, and all the authorities to whom he had ever been 
subject, he would have taken her hand and led her away 
before their faces. So he said to himself as he waited in 
the cold, half indignant, at that wonderful moment of his 
fate, that any concealment should be necessary. The cot- 


992 


A POOR GEOTLEMAJf. 


tage was all dark; there was not even a light in the upper 
window^ such as was sometimes there, to make him aware 
that she looked for him. Not a glimmer of light and not 
a sound. The cottage seemed like a place of the dead. It 
seemed to him so much more silent than usual that he took 
fright after awhile, and this, in addition to his feeling 
that the time for secrecy was over, emboldened him in his 
impatience. He went up to the cottage door and knocked 
repeatedly more and more loudly after awhile, with a sen- 
sation of alarm. Was it possible that old deaf Mrs. Crock- 
ford was alone in the house? He had time to get into a 
perfect fever of apprehension before he heard a heavy step 
coming from behind, and the door was opened to him by 
Crockford himself, who filled up the whole of the little 
passage. The old man had a candle in his hand* 

What, is it you, Mr. Walter?’^ he cried, astonished. 

Where is she?^^ said Walter. ‘^What have you done 
with her? Will you tell her I am here?^^ He could not 
speak of her familiarly by her name to this man. But 
Crockford had no such delicacy; he stared Walter in the 
face, looking at him across' the flame of the candle, which 
waved and flickered in the night air. 

Emmy!^^ he said. Why, Mr. Walter, shea’s gone 
hours ago!^^ 

Gone! Where has she gone? YouVe driven her away* 
Some one has been here and driven her awayT^ 

Ay, Mr. Walter! The fly at the Penton Arms as she 
ordered herself to catch the two o^ clock train; that’s what 
drove her away, and thankful we was to be quit of her; and 
so should you be, my young gentleman, if you was wise^ 
She’s a little — ” 

^ ■ Hold your tongue!” cried Walter. Who has driven 
her away? _Is it my father? — ^^is it — Some one has been 
here to interfere. Silence! If you were not an old man 
I’d knock you down. ” 

Silence, and asking me a dozen questions? That’s 
consistent, that is! There’s been nobody here — not a soul. 
She’s gone as she intended. • She told my old woman as 
soon as she heard I’d been down at the house. I didn’t 
believe her, but she’s kept her word. All the better for 
you, Mr. Walter, if you only could see it; all the better, 
^ir. She’s not the same as you think. She’s—” 

Silence!” cried Walter again. I don’t believe she 


A POOR gentlema:^^. 


293 


lias gone away at all; yon are making up a story; you are 
trying to deceive me!^^ 

Al this old Crockford opened the door wider and bid him 
enter, and Walter, with eyes which were hot and painful, 
as if the blood had got into them, stared in, not knowing 
what he did. He h^ no desire to investigate. He knew 
well enough that it was true. She had sent him out of the 
way and then she had gone. She had not thought him 
worth the trouble. She had wanted to get rid of him. 
This sudden blow awoke no angry flush of pride, as it 
ought to have done. He felt no blame of her in his mind; 
instead , he asked himself what he had done to disgust her 
with him. It must be something he had done. He had 
disgusted her with his folly — with his hesitation about 
transgressing any puritanical habits of thought for her 
sake: and then by his talk about his home. He remem- 
bered her flash of disappointment, of contempt, when he 
had owned that it was not he whp had told his father. Of 
course she had despised him, how could he think otherwise? 
She was ready to trust herself to him, and he had not been 
strong enough to make the least sacrifice for her. He 
turned and went away from Crockford^s door without a 
word. 

And after that he did not know very well how he got 
through the weary hours. He walked to the railway station 
and prowled all about with a forlorn sort of hope that she 
might have missed her train. And then quite suddenly it 
occurred to him, having nothing else to do, that he might 
go home. He went, as has been seen, to his room in the 
dark, and sent his mother away with an entreaty to be left 
alone. He was not touched by his mother^s voice, or her 
touch or blessing. He was impatient of them, his mind - 
being full of other things. His mind, indeed, was full of 
Emmy — full to bursting. It might be well for him that 
she was gone, if he could have thought so. He half agreed 
to that in his soul. But he would not think so. Had he 
carried her off triumphantly his mind would have been full 
of a hundred tremors, but to lose her now was more than 
he could bear. He lay thinking it all over, longing for the 
morning, in the dark, without candle or any other comfort, 
sleeping now and then, waking only to a keener conscious- 
ness. And then he became aware by some change in the 
chill, for there was none in the light, that it was morning. 


294 


A POOK GEKTLE3IAN. 


He got up ill the dark — he had not undressed, but had 
been lying on the bed with the coverlet drawn over him in 
his morning clothes. Ifc was very cold and blank, the skies 
all gloom, the river showing one pale gleam and no more. 
He got up as quietly as he could and stole down-stairs and 
opened stealthily the house door. * one was stirring, not 
even the servants, though in so full a house they were 
always early. The fresh morning air blew in his face and 
refreshed him. He felt his fifty jiounds in his pocket. He 
scarcely thought of the misery he would leave behind him. 
Long enough, he said to himself, he had been bound by the 
family, now his own life was in question, and he must act 
for himself. There was a train at half past six which he 
could just catch. How different it was from his night drive 
so 'Short a time ago! Then he was acting reluctantly for 
othei’s, now willingly for himself. The cold air blew in 
his face with a dash of rain in it. He shut the gate quietly 
not to make a noise, but never looked back. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE LOST 

The parents respected jDOor Wat^s seclusion, his misery 
and trouble, though it was so hard to keej) away from him; 
not to go and talk to him, remonstrating or consoling; not 
to carry him a tray, to implore him to eat a little. They 
resisted all these impulses: the last, perhaps, was the most 
difficult. Lady Pen ton had to call to her aid all the forces of 
her mind, to strengthen herself by every consideration of 
prudence, before she could overcome the burning desire 
which came back and back, with renewed temptation, a 
hundred times in the course of the evening to take up that 
tray. A few sandwiches, a little claret, or some beer, 
would have done him no harm ; and who could tell whether 
he had eaten enough to sustain his strength in the course of 
the day? But, what with her own self- reminders that it 
was wiser to leave him to himself, what with the half 
taunts, half remonstrances of her husband — ‘‘ If I am not 
to say a word to him, which I believe is nonsense, why 
should you?^^ — holding herself as it were with both hands, 
she managed to refrain. The first time that such a breach 
comes into a family — that one member of it withdraws in 


A POOK GENTLEMAlSr. 


295 


darkness and silence into his own room, not to be dis- 
turbed, not to be found fault with, not even to be comfort- 
ed — till to-morrow — how keen is the pang of the separation, 
how poignant the sense of his solitude and anguish! In 
such circumstances it is the culprit generally who suffers 
least. The grieved and perhaps angered parents, ponder- 
ing what to say to him, how to do what is best for him, 
how not to say too much, afraid to make the fault appear 
too grave, afraid to make too little of it, casting about in 
their anxious souls what to do: the brothers and sisters 
looking on in the background, questioning each other with 
bated breath, their imaginations all busy with that too 
touching, too suggestive picture of the offender in his room, 
left to himself, eating nothing, communicating with nobody 
— how dreadful when it is for the first time! what a heart- 
breaking and hopeless wretchedness when custom has made 
it common, and there is no longer any confidence in remon- 
strance or appeal. It is generally some evident breach of 
the proprieties or minor morals that is the cause of such a 
domestic event. But this time nobody knew what Walter 
had done. What had he done? • it could not be anything 
wrong. He had quarreled with father: to be sure that was 
as though the heavens had fallen: but yet it could only bo 
a mistake. Father no doubt had been impatient; Wat had 
been affronted. They had not waited, either of them, to 
explain. The girls made it clear to each other in this 
way. At all events, it was all over now. No doubt poor 
Wat had spent a miserable day: but no one would remind 
him of it by a word, by so much as a look, and it was all 
over, and would be remembered no more. 

The parents got up in the morning with many a troubled 
thought. They asked each other what it would be best to 
say. Perhaps it would be wisest to say as little as possible: 
perhaps only to point out to him that, in his position, now 
truly the heir of Penton, any premature matrimonial proj- 
ect would be ruinous: that he was far too young; that in 
any case, supposing the lady were the most eligible person 
in the world, it would be necessary to wait. 

‘‘ If that is what he is thinking of,^^ said Sir Edward. 

What else could he be thinking of?^^ cried Lady Pen- 

ton. 

Or if perhaps it was only a passing folly, a foolish little 
flirtation, nothing serious at all? Then perhaps a few 


296 


A POOR GENTLEMAX. 


words only, to remind him that in his position one must 
not do such things, one must not lead a silly girl to form 
expectations — 

“Oh, bother the silly girl!"^ said Sir Edward; “what 
are her expectations to usr It is Wat I am thinking of/^ 

“ Dear Edward, said the mother, “ he will be far, far 
more likely to see the folly of it if you show him that it 
might have a bad effect upon another/^ 

At this Sir Edward shook his head, thinking that his 
wife did not here show her usual good sense, but he made 
no objection in words, and finally it was decided between 
them that as little as possible was to be said, nothing at all 
at first, and that the poor boy was to be allowed to have his 
breakfast in peace. 

But at breakfast Walter did not appear. It was thought 
at first that he was late on purpose, waiting perhaps till 
the children had finished — till he might have a hope of 
being alone; or at least, if he had to face his father, to 
secure that no one else should be present when he was called 
to account. By and by, however, a thrill of alarm began 
to be felt; and then came a terrible disclosure which froze 
their very blood — Gardener coming to his work very early 
in the morning had met Mr. Walter leaving the house. 
He had* on his big great-coat and a bag in his hand, and he 
was in a great hurry, as a man might be who was bent on 
matching the seven o^clock train. Walter^s room was 
searched at once in case he should have left a note or any- 
thing to explain: but there was not a scrap of explanation. 
He was gone, that was clear. He had taken some linen, a 
change of dress in his bag; his drawers were left open, and 
all the contents thrown about, as is usual when a man 
selects for himself a few articles of dress to take with him. 
The look of these drawers carried dismay to his mother^s 
heart. He was gone. Where had he goner So young, so 
little accustomed to independent action, so ignorant of the 
world! Where had the boy gone? what had happened to 
him? Lady Penton recollected after the event, as we so 
often do, that Walter had made no response to her sugges- 
tions of what was to be said and done to-morrow. He had 
answered “ Good-night, mother, and no more; that was 
no answer. He had never said lie would accept her advice 
to-morrow, that he would discuss what had happened, or 
hear what his father had to say. “ Good-night, mother, 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


297 


that was all he had said. And oh! she might have known^ 
when he eluded the subject in this way — she might have 
known! She ought to have been on her guard. Sir Ed- 
ward said very little; his face grew dark with anger and 
indignation, and he walked oft at once in the direction of 
the village without saying where he meant to go. All at 
once from their happiness and unsuspecting peace the fam- 
ily plunged into that depth of dismay and misery which 
comes with the first great family anxiety. It seemed to 
them all who were old enough to understand anything 
about it that a great shame and horror had come into the 
midst of them. Walter had left home without a word; 
they did riot know where he was, or why he had gone, or in 
whose company. Could anything be more terrible? Just 
grown to man's estale, and he had disappeared,, and no one 
knew where he had gone! 

The period that followed is beyond description in these 
pages. Out of the clear serenity of innocent life this 
blameless household fell — as into an abyss of terror and 
shame, of new experiences unthought of, and new condi- 
tions. The girls, with a gasp, behind backs, scarcely dar- 
ing to look at each other, heard their mother say to Mab^ 
who was so great an aggravation of their trouble, that Wal- 
ter had gone — to town on business; that he had prepara- 
tions to make and things to get before he went to Oxfords 
Lady Penton said this in a voice which scarcely faltered, 
looking the visitor, who was so sadly out of place in the 
midst of the agitated company, in the face all the time. 

Oh, to be sure,^' said Mab, they always do. Any 
excuse is good enough for gentlemen, don't you think. 
Lady Penton? they are always so pleased to get to town." 

Lady Penton looked quite gratefully at the girl. Yes," 
she said; they all like it." 

And so should I," said little Mab, if I - were a boy." 

It was not of any importance what little Mab said, and 
yet it was astonishing how it comforted Lady Penton. She 
said to the girls afterward that living so quietly as they had 
all done made people disposed to make mountains out of 
mole-hills. But you see that little girl thinks it quite a 
common sort of thing," she said. 

But Sir Edward's gloomy face was not a thing that was 
capable of any disguise. He was in movement the whole 
day long. He went all about, taking long walks, and next 


298 


A POOR GEifTLEMAX. 


day went up to London, and was absent from morning to 
night. He never said anything, nor did the girls venture 
to question him. There seemed to have grown a great dif- 
ference between them — a long, long interval separating him 
from his daughters. He had long private conversations 
with his wife when he came back; indeed, she would with- 
draw into the book-room when she saw him coming, as if 
to be ready for him. And they would shut themselves uj) 
and talk for an hour at a time, with a continuous low^ mur- 
mur of voices. 

‘‘Oh, mother, tell us,^^ Ally or Anne would cry when 
they could find her alone for a moment, “ is there any news? 
has father found anything out?^’ to which Lady Penton 
would reply, with a shake of her head, “ Your father hopes 
to find him very soon. • Oh, douT ask questions! I am not 
able to answer you,^^ she would say. 

This seemed to go on for ages — for almost a life-time — so 
that they began to forget how^ peaceful their lives had been 
before; and to go into Walter^s room, which they did con- 
stantly, and look at his bed, made 1123 in cold order and tidi- 
ness, never disturbed. To see it all so tidy, not even a pair 
of boots thrown about or a tie fiung on the table, made 
their hearts die within them. It was as if "Walter were 
dead — almost worse. It seemed more dreadful than death 
to think that they did not know where he was. 

And Mab stayed on foj one long endless week. Some 
one of them had ahvays to be with her, trying to amuse 
her; talking, or making an effort to talk. Lady Penton 
was the one who succeeded best. She would let the girl 
ehatter to her for an hour together, and never miss saying 
the right thing in the right place, or giving Mab the ap- 
propriate smile and encouragement. How" could she do it? 
the girls wondered and asked each other. Did she like that 
little chatter? How did she bear it? Did it make her for- 
get? Or finally — a suggestion which they hardly dared to 
make — did mother not care so very much? Was that pos- 
sible? When one is young and very young, one can not be- 
lieve that the older people suffer as one feels one’s self to 
suffer. It seems impossible that they can do it. They go 
steadily on and order dinner every day, and point out to 
the house-maid wlien she has not dusted as she ought. 
This suggestion to the house-maid (which they called scold- 
ing Mary) was a great stumbling-block to the girls. Tliey 


A POOR GEKTLEMAN. 


299 


did not understand liow their mother could be very miser- 
able about Walter, and yet find fault, nay, find out at all 
the dust upon the books. They themselves lived in a world 
suddenly turned into something different from the world 
they had known, where the air kept whispering as if it had 
a message to deliver, and sounds were about the house at 
night as of some one coming, always coming, who never 
came. They had not known what the mystery of the dark- 
ness was before, the great profundity of night in which 
somewhere their brother might be wandering homeless, in 
what trouble and distress who could tell? or what aching 
depths of distance was in the great full staring daylight, 
through which they gazed and gazed and looked for him, 
but never saw him. How intolerable Mab became with 
her chatter; how they chafed even at their mother’s self- 
command, and the steadiness with which she went on keep- 
ing the house in order, it would be difficult to say. Their 
father, though they scarcely ventured to speak to him in 
his self-absorbed and resentful gloom, had more of their 
sympathy. He not only suffered, but looked as if he suf- 
fered. He lost his color, he lost his appetite, he was rest- 
less, incapable of keeping still. He could no longer bear 
the noise of the children, and sickened at the sight of food. 
And there was Mab all the time, to whom Lady Penton 
had told that story about Walter, but who, when they felt 
sure, knew better, having learned to read their faces, and 
to see the restrained misery, the tension of suspense. Oh, 
if this spectator, this observer, with her quick eyes, which 
it was so difficult to elude, would but go away! 

At last it was announced that the Eussell Pentons were 
coming to fetch her, an event which the household regard- 
ed with mingled relief and alarm. Sir Edward’s face grew 
gloomier than ever. They have come to spy out the 
nakedness of the land,” he said; Alicia will divine what 
anxiety we are in, and she will not be sorry. ” 

Oh, hush, Edward,” said his wife; we do not want 
her to be sorry. Why should she be sorry? she know^s 
nothing.” 

You think so,” he cried; but depend upon it every- 
body knows. ” 

Why should everybody know? Nobody shall know 
from me; and the girls will betray nothing. They know 


300 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


nothing, poor children. If you will only try to look a lit- 
tle cheerful yourself, and keep up appearances — 

Cheerful he said, with something of the same feel- 
ing as the girls had, that she could not surely care so 
much. Was it possible that she did not care? But never- 
theless he tried to do something to counteract that droop of 
his mouth, and make his voice a little more flexible and 
natural, when the sound of the wheels on the gravel told 
that the Fentons had come. Meanwhile Mab had gone, 
attended by the sisters, to make her preparations for going. 
They had packed her things for her, an office to which she 
was not accustomed, while she mourned over her departure, 
and did their best not to show her that this was a feeling they 
did not share. 

Mab lingered a little after the carriage arrived. She 
wanted to show her sympathy, though it was not quite easy 
to see how that was to be done. She remained silent for a 
minute or so, and then she said, I havenT liked to say 
anything, but IVe been very, very sorry, giving Ally a 
sudden kiss as she spoke. 

The two girls looked at each other, as was their wont, 
and Anne, who was always the most prompt, asked, ^^ Sorry 
for what?^^ 

Do you really, really not know where he is?^^ said Mab, 
without pausing to reply. I think I could tell you where 
Jie is. He is in town with — some one — 

Some one?^^ they both cried, with a sudden pang of 
excitement, as though they were on the verge of a discov- 
ery; for unless she knew something — though how could she 
know anything? — it seemed impossible that she could speak 
so. 

Oh, the one he went out every night to see. There 
must have been somebody. When they go out every night 
like that it is always to see — some one,^^ she said, nodding 
her head in the certainty of her superior knowledge of the 
world. 

Oh, how do you know? You are mistaken if you think 
that Walter — how can you know about such things?^^ 

Because I am little,’^ said Mab, and not very old, 
that^s not to say that I haven^t been a great deal about: 
and IVe heard j)eople talking. They pretend they doiiT 
talk before girls. I suppose they think they don^t. They 
stop themselves just enough to make you want to find out, 


A POOR GENTLEMAJs. 


301 


and then they forget you are there> and say all sorts of 
things. That^s where he is, you may be sure: and he will 
come back by and by, especially if he w^ants money. You 
needn^t be afraid. That is what they all do. Oh, listen; 
they are calling us from down-stairs! I am so sorry I must 
go: I wish I could stay: I like this better than any j)lace 1 
ever stayed at, and you^ve all been so kind. Write to me 
and tell me, will you, all about it? I shall be anxious to 
know. But doiTt make, yourselves miserable, for he will 
come back wiieii he has spent his money, or when — Yes, 
we are coming! We are coming! Ally, mind you wnite 
and tell me. I shall want so much to know. 

They tried to interrupt her again and again to tell her 
she was mistaken; that Walter had only gone to town; that 
they were not anxious, or ignorant where he was, or un- 
happy about him: with much more to the same effect; but 
Mab^s cheerful certainty that she was right overpowered 
their faltering affirmations, of which she took no notice. 
She kissed them both with enthusiasm in the midst of her 
little harangue, and ran on with expressions of her regret 
as they went down-stairs. Oh, I wish Lady Peiiton 
would have me for good,^^ Mab said; but you doiiT care 
for me as I do for you. 

Meanwhile, in the drawing-room. Lady Penton was re- 
ceiving her visitors with an eager cordiality that was scarcely 
consistent with her nature, and which was meant to show 
not only that she was entirely at her ease, but that her hus- 
band^s gloom, which he had tried to shake off, but not 
very successfully, did not mean anything. As a matter of 
fact, the Russell Pentons, knowing nothing of the circum- 
stances of Walter^s disappearance, were quite unaware of 
any effort, or any reason why an effort should be made. 
They interpreted the husband^s half -resentful looks — for 
that was the natural- aspect of distress with Edward Penton 
— and the excessive courtesy and desire to please, of his 
wife, as fully accounted for by the position toward each 
other in wiiich the two families stood. Why should Ed- 
ward Penton be resentful? He had got his rights, those 
rights upon which he had stood so strongly when his cousin 
Alicia had paid her previous visit. She was ready to put a 
jirivate interpretation of her own on everything she saw. 
He had resisted then her proposals and overtures, although 
afterward he had been anxious to accede to them; and now 


302 


A POOR OENTLEMAK. 


he was disappointed and vexed that the bargain against 
which he had stood out at first had come to nothing, and 
that she would not relieve him from the burden of the ex- 
pensive house which he had first refused to give up and 
then been so anxious to be quit of. How inconsistent! 
How feeble! And the wife endeavoring with her little fuss 
of politeness to make up, perhaps thinking that she might 
succeed where her husband had failed ! This was how Mrs. 
Eussell Pen ton interpreted the aspect of the poor people 
whose object was to conceal their unhappiness from all 
eyes, and that nobody might have a word to say against the 
boy who was racking their hearts. 

I have been sorry to leave Mab so long, to give you the 
trouble,^^ Mrs. Eussell Penton said, with her stiff dignity. 

Her uncle, in his consideration for me, did not think of 
your inconvenience, I fear.^^ 

There has been no inconvenience. We are so many 
that one more or less does not matter. We have treated 
her without ceremony, as one of the family — 

‘‘And made her very happy, evidently, said Eussell 
Penton. “ She is very unwilling to come away.'^^ 

And then there was a pause. That Mab Eussell, the 
heiress, should be treated as one of the family by these poor 
Pentons was to Alicia a reversal of every rule which she 
could scarcely accept without a protest. “ It must have 
been a glimpse of life very different from anything she has 
been accustomed to,^^ she said at last. 

“ Yes, poor little thing! with no brothers or sisters of 
her own.^^ 

“ She has compensations,^'’ said Eussell Penton, with a 
glimmer of humor in his eyes. But Lady Penton looked 
at him without any response in hers. He was so surprised 
at this, and bewildered that Mab’s value should not be 
known, that involuntarily, out of the commotion in his own 
mind, he put a question which seemed full of meaning to 
the troubled listeners. “ I donT see your son,^^ he said. 

The father and mother exchanged a miserable look. 
“ It is known, then,'’^ their eyes said to each other; and in 
spite of herself the blood rushed to Lady Penton^s face and 
then ebbed away again, leaving her faint and pallid; but 
she made an effort at a smile. “ Walter, she said, “ is 
not at home. He is going to Oxford in a month or two, 
and he is away for a little. 


A POOR GENTLEMAiq'. 


303 


Taking a holiday?^’ suggested Russell PentoU;, with a 
curious consciousness, though without any understanding, 
of trouble in the air. 

Oh, it is rather — business,"^ said the mother. Sir Ed- 
w^ard did not change that aspect of severe gravity which he 
had borne all the time. He had too much set wretchedness 
in his face to change as she did. You have been more 
good to him,"" she continued, glad of the excuse which jus- 
tified her trembling voice, ^^more good than words can 
say. "" 

‘‘I have no right to any credit: I only carried out my 
father"s wishes,"" said Mrs. Pen ton. How severe her tone 
was! how clear that she was aware that Walter, the recipient 
of her kindness, had shown himself unworthy! If anything 
could have made these poor people more unhappy it was 
this — that their precautions seemed useless and their 
trouble known. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

KEEPIKG UP APPEARANCES. 

The Russell Pentons stayed a long time — at least, these 
anxious people thought so, who believed their visitors to be 
noting the signs of their unhappiness, and forming still 
stronger and stronger conclusions against their son. The 
effort Lady Penton made to carry on the conversation was 
one of those efforts, gigantic, unappreciated, in which 
w'omen have sometimes to make an expenditure of strength 
which is equal to years of ordinary exertion. Who can tell 
the burden it was to talk, to smile, to exhaust all the trivial 
subjects that occurred to her, to keep at a distance all those 
graver topics which might bring in Walter — which might 
lead to discussion of where he was or how employed? She 
saw, so to speak, half a mile off those tendencies of con- 
versation which might lead to him, and, with a sudden 
leap, would get away from these to another and another 
theme, which each in its turn w^ould have to be dismissed 
and avoided. All roads lead to Rome,"" says the proverb; 
and when there is a certain subject which it is desirable to 
avoid, all the streamlets of conversation, by some curious 
tendency, go to that with infallible force. Lady Penton 


304 


A POOR GEKTLEMAX. 


had to go through a series of mental gymnastics to avoid it 
—to keep her visitors from any thought of Walter — to hide 
him^ or rather to hide the terrible blank in the house where 
he ought to have been. Had he been in his usual place the 
conversation would never have touched him; and, as a mat- 
ter of fact, the Bussell Pentohs did not think of him any 
more than they did of Horry in the nursery, a stray shout 
from whom could sometimes be heard, leaving no one in 
any doubt as to his whereabouts. But the mother, hying 
from subject to subject, talking as she had never been 
known to talk in her life before, and her taciturn husband, 
who said not a word that he could help saying — both felt 
that their misery was open and evident, that the Bussell 
Pentons were saying in their hearts, ^^Poor people or 
making reflections that the boy^s upbringing must have 
been bad indeed when he had ‘^gone wrong at such an 
early age. Lady Penton felt instinctively that this was 
what must be going through Alicia^s mind. The childless 
woman always says so — it is one of the commonplaces of 
morals. If he had been brought up as he ought he would 
not have gone, wrong. This and a hundred other things 
went buzzing through the poor mother^s head, confusing 
her as she talked and talked. Oh,^^ she said to herself, 
^^it is better that they should think that! — better blame 
us — blame me, who have been overindulgent, perhaps, or 
oversevere — overanything, so long as they do not blame 
But the father was not so disinterested; he was 
angry as well_ as miserable. He would have had Walter 
bear his own guilt; he would not allow those critics who 
had never had a son to say that it was the parents^ fault. 
So he stood with that resentment in his face, saying so lit- 
tle, only making an annoyed remark when appealed to, 
short, with suppressed temper in it, while his wife smiled 
and ran on. How like Edward Penton that was! his cousin 
thought. He had made a proposal to her which she in her 
pride would not accept, and his pride could not forgive her. 
Alica felt that she understood it all — as well as the silly 
attempt of the wife to smooth it all over and make peace 
' etween them — as if the two Pentons did not understand 
each other better than any outsider! as if this question be- 
tween them could be smoothed away by her! 

You will let me come back again.^^^ said Mab, rubbing 
her little cheek like a kitten against Lady Penton^s ear. 


A POOR GEOTLEMAiq-. SOIf^ 

will never go away unless you say that I may come 
back/^ .. 

“ What a threat!^^ said Russell Fenton. “ In order to 
get rid of you, Mab, the promise will have to be made. 

“ Not to get rid of her: we don^t want to get rid of her* 
Yes, my dear, certainly as soon — as soon as we are settled, 
when the house is not so dull — 

“ It isn^t dull, no one can be dull with you. I will tell 
you what I want in a whisper. I want to come and stay 
altogether; I want you to have me altogether,^ said Mab, 
in the confidence of her wealth. 

“ My dear!^^ cried Lady Fenton, faltering. In spite of 
her preoccupations she was a little alarmed. She put it off 
with a kiss of farewell. “ You must come as often as you 
like/^ she said. “ It is sweet of you to wish to come. We 
shall always be glad to see you, either here or — wherever 
we may be.^^ 

“ At Fenton,^ ^ said Mab, once more rubbing her little 
head against the woman to whom she clung. “ Uncle 
Russell, oh, ask her to have me! There is no place where 
I could be so happy. 

“You must come as soon as we are settled,"'^ said Lady 
Fenton, in real panic, putting the supplicant away. 

Alicia had turned during this too tender and prolonged 
leave-taking, with a little indignation, to the master of the 
house. She had never herself either attracted or been at- 
tracted to Mab, and she felt resentful, annoyed, even jeal- 
ous — though she cared nothing for the little thing and her 
whims — of this sudden devotion. She stood by her cousin, 
who was resentful and indignant too. “ Edward,^^ she 
said to him, “ we neednT quarrel, at least. I know you 
meant well in offering me Fenton. DonT be displeased 
because I couldnT accept it — I couldnT, from any one, 
unless it had been my right. 

“ Fenton! do you think of nothing but Fenton?^^ he 
cried, suddenly, with an incomprehensible impatience of 
the subject — that subject which had once seemed so im- 
portant, which appeared to him so small now. 

“I speak for the sake of peace, she said, coldly; “ 
need not stand between us now. VV^ e go away in a week. 
The things I mean to remove will be gone within a month. 
What I wish you to know is, that you may make arrange- 
ments for your removal as soon as you please. 


306 


A POOR GENTLEMAN-. 


Oh, for oar removal! yes, yes,^^ he said, impatiently; 

there is no hurry about that: if that was all one had to 
think of — 

I am sorry that you should have other things to think 
of. To me it seems very important,^^ Mrs. Eussell Penton 
said. 

‘‘ Ah! you have nobody but yourself to be concerned 
about, he said. But then he met his wife^s look of warn- 
ing, and added no more. 

Eussell Penton lingered a little behind the rest. Let 
me speak a word to you,^^ he said, detaining Lady Penton; 
and her heart, which had begun to beat feebly as an end 
approached to this excitement, leaped up again with an 
energy which made her sick and faint. Could he know 
something about Walter? might he have some news to tell 
her? Her face flushed, and then became the color of 
ashes, a change of which he was wonderingly aware, though 
without a notion as to why it was. You are alarmed, 
he said, about — 

No, no!^^ she interrupted, faintly; not alarmed. 
Oh, no, you must not think so — not frightened at all,^^ but 
with fear pale and terrible, and suspense which was desper- 
ate, in every line of her countenance. 

Eussell Penton himself grew frightened too. There is 
nothing to alarm yoii,'^ he said, ‘‘ about little Mab/^ 

Oh!^^ the breath which had almost failed her came 
back. A sudden change came over her face; she smiled, 
though her smile was ghastly. About — -Mab?^-^ she said. 

It is alarming, the way in which she flings herself upon 
you; but you must let me explain. I see that you think 
her just a little girl like any other, and her proposal to 
come and stay with you altogether is enough to make even 
the most generous pause. But that is not what she means. 
Lady Penton. She is very rich; she is a little heiress.'’^ 

The words did not seem to convey much significance to 
Lady Penton^s bewildered soul. A little heiress, she 
repeated, vaguely, as if that information threw no light 
upon the matter. Was she stupid? he asked himself, or 
ridiculously disinterested, altogether unlike the other women 
who have sons? Very rich— really with a great fortune 
— but no home. She is too young to live by lierself. She 
never developed the domestic affections before. I 
^liould like very well to keep her, but it would be a burden 


A POOR GEXTLEMAX. 307 

on Alicia. Will you think it over? She has evidently set 
her heart on you, and it would do her so much good to be 
with people she oared for. There would of course be a very 
good allowance, if you will let me say so. Do think it 
over. ^ ^ 

They had reached the door by this time, where Sir Ed- 
ward was solemnly putting his cousin into her carriage. 
Mr. Eussell Penton pressed Lady Penton^s hand with a lit- 
tle meaning as he said good-bye. Walter might have a 
try too,^^ he said, with a laugh, as he turned away. 

Walter might have — a try. A try at what? His moth- 
er’s head swam. She put her arm through that of Anne, 
who stood near her, and kept smiling, waving her hand to 
Mab in the carriage: but Lady Penton scarcely saw what 
she was looking at. There was something moving, daz- 
zling before her eyes — the horses, the glitter of the panels, 
the faces, flickered before her; and then came a rush of 
sound, the horses’ hoofs', the carriage wheels grinding the 
gravel, and they were gone. Oh, how thankful she felt 
when they were gone! The girls led her in, frightened by 
her failing strength, and then Sir Edward came, as gloomy 
as ever, and leaned over her. 

“I doiiT think they knew,” he said; ‘‘I don’t think 
they had heard anything. ” 

Lady Penton repeated to herself several times over 

Walter might have a try,” and then she too burst forth. 

No, Edward, thank God! I am sure they did not know.’^ 

He shook his head, though he was so niuch relieved, and 
said, half reluctant to confess that he was relieved, But 
if it lasts much longer they must know. How can it be 
kept from them, and from everybody, if it lasts much 
longer?” 

The girls looked at each other, but did not speak; for 
they were aware, though no one else was, that Mab hneio ; 
and could it be supposed that that little thing, who did not 
belong to them, who had no reason for sharing their 
troubles, would keep it to herself and never tell? 

They had all thought it would be a relief to be rid of the 
little spectator and critic, the stranger in the house, and 
for a time it- was so. The rest of the afternoon after she 
was gone the girls and their mother spent together talking 
it all over. They had never been able uninterruptedly to 
talk it over before, and there was a certain painful enjoy- 


308 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


ment in going over every detail, in j^utting all the facts 
they knew together, and comparing their views. Sir Ed- 
ward had gone out to take one of his long solemn walks, 
from which he always came in more gloomy, more resent- 
ful than ever. He was going up to town once more to- 
morrow. Once more! He had gone up almost every day, 
but never had discovered anything, never had found the 
lost. And in his absence, and freed from Mab, whom they 
had not been able to get rid of at any moment, what a 
long, long consultation they had, talking over everything, 
except what Mab had suggested. She had said it with the 
intention of consoling, but the girls could not repeat it to 
each other, or breathe to their mother the suggestion she 
had made. They were not educated to that point. That 
their brother should have married foolishly, made an idol 
of some girl who was not his equal, and followed her out 
into the unknown world, was dreadful, but comprehensible; 
but that he should come back by and by when he wanted 
money — oh, no, no! What they imagined was that scene 
so well known to romance — the foolish young pair coming 
back, stealing in, he leading her, ashamed yet proud of 
her, to ask his parents^ forgiveness. The girls went over 
the details of this scene again and again as soon as they had 
heard all that their mother had to tell them. 

She must be beautiful, they said; she may be nice 
— oh, she must be nice or Wat would not love her!^^ 

Oh, my dears,^^ cried Lady Penton, ‘^how can we 
tell: It is not good girls and nice girls who lead young- 
men away from their duty. . 

But, mother, if they love each other!^^ said Ally, 
blushing over all her ingenuous, innocent countenance, 
with the awe and wonder of that great thing. 

Lady Penton did not say anything more, but she shook 
her head, and then it was for the first time that there came 
over her the poignant suggestion of that might have 
been which she had not taken into her mind till now. 
Walter might have a try; little Mab with her heiress-ship 
had been thrown at his head, as people say: and what it 
might have been had these two taken to each other — had a 
great fortune been poured into Penton! Lady Penton had 
never known what a great piece of good fortune was; she 
was not one who expected such things. The very advan- 
tages of it, the desirableness, made it to her temperate soul 


A POOK GEKTLEMAIS^. 


309 


the less likely. It never could have come to pass, all the 
contrarieties of nature were against ifc; but still, when she 
thought that they had spent so many days under the same 
roof, and might have spent so many more, and how suit- 
able it would have been, and what a good thing for Walter, 
it was not wonderful that she should sigh. But that was 
the course of nature, it was the way of human affairs. It 
was too good ever to come true. 

After the first night, the relief of Mab^s departure was 
not so evident to them. She had been a restraint, not only 
upon their conversations and consultations, but on the en- 
tire abandonment of their life and thoughts to this anxiety 
and distress. They had been compelled on her account to 
.bear the strain, to make a struggle against it. Now there 
was no longer that motive. Night and day their ears were 
intent on every sound; there was always a watcher at the 
window in the staircase, which commanded the ascending 
path to the village, a sort of lookout woman ready to dash 
down-stairs and give notice if by chance — ah! no, by the 
blessing of God — the wanderer might be seen coming home. 
The watch here was furtive, lest the servants should note, 
but it was continual; one or another was always lingering 
about, looking out with eyes keen and sharp with anxiety— 
busy in the distance shaping things, that made the heart 
beat thick. ’ ^ And so the days passed on, languishing, with 
dark nights so endless-long in which the anxious watchers 
could hear only and could not see. 


OHAPTEE XXXIX. 

ALLY^S PART. 

Sir Edward Pektok went to London most days, but he 
never found out anything. He was not the sort of man to 
act as an amateur detective, and he would not appeal to the 
professionals in that capacity. He was an old-fashioned 
man, and it seemed to him that ‘‘to set the police after 
his son was an indignity impossible. He could not do it. 
He tramped about himself, yearning, angry, very tender 
underneath, thinking if he could only see Walter, meet 
him, which always seems so likely to country people, in the 
street, that all would be well. He went to all the places 
Crockford could tell him of — to Emmy^s mother, a faded 


310 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


old actress of the lower class, whose faded graces, and her 
vivacity, and what had been, or had been supposed to be, 
her fascination, made poor Sir Edward^s heart sink into his 
boots. But she professed to know nothing of her daugh- 
ter's movements, and nothing at all of any gentleman. 
There had been a gentleman, she allowed, a young man 
connected with business — but it had been to escape from 
his addresses that her child had gone to the country: and 
Emmy was far too high-minded to keep company with any 
one of whom her mother did not know. In his despair Sir 
Edward even sought out the shop in which this gentleman 
in his business hours was to be found, and had an interview 
with the young man whose appearance in the village had so 
much alarmed and almost disgusted Walter. No informa- 
tion was to be obtained from him. He declared sullenly 
that he knew nothing about the girl: yes, he had known 
her, he didn^t deny; he had thought more of her than she 
was worth. Though it was going against all his family he 
had stuck to her for a long time, and would have stuck to 
her as long as she had stuck to him: but he knew nothing 
about her now. Is it money, guvhior; somebody left 
her a fortune?’^ he asked at. the end of the interview, with 
a laugh which disconcerted Sir Edward. This was almost 
all he had been able to do, except tramping about the 
streets wherever he could think his son was likely to go. 
The poor gentleman increased his knowledge of London in 
the most wonderful way during these miserable days. He 
found out all kinds of back streets and alleys, and corners 
of building such as he had never remarked before, but all 
with a veil over them, a mist of trouble. London in Jan- 
uary is dark enough even when the eyes are not clouded 
with suffering and anxiety; but with these added how mis- 
erable were the chill streets, the low skies, the yellow thick- 
ness of the atmosphere, the hopeless throngs of unknown 
men and women, always blank, always unresponsive to those 
strained and troubled eyes! Sometimes he thought he saw 
before him a slim young figure, moving quickly, as Walter 
might, through the crowd, and hurried vainly after it; pur- 
suing at a hopeless distance, only to lose it in the ever- 
changing groups. Sometimes with the corner of his eye 
he would catch a glimpse of some one disappearing round 
a corner, plunging into a side street, who might be his boy. 
Alas I it was always a might-be. No happy chance brought 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


311 


them face to face. Had there been no particular reason 
for it they would have met, no doubt, in the simplest way; 
but this is one of the cases in which, as daily ex23erience 
proves, those who seek do not find. And when Sir Edward 
returned home after a day so spent, the gloom he brought 
with him was like a London fog descending bodily upon 
the country. Probably there had been a little deadening of 
trouble in the physical exertion and gloomy expectation of 
these expeditions; but he brought an embodied darkness 
and desolation home. 

On one of the days of his absence Ally was acting as a 
sort of sentinel in the garden: that is, she was taking a 
walk, as they said, but with an eye always upon the road 
and the gate — when her anxious mind was distracted by a 
sound of approaching wheels, coming, not down the hill, 
but along the river bank. It was a gray day, damp and 
soft, with no wind; one of those da 3 ^s which are not unusual 
ill tlie valley of the Thames; not cold, save for the chill of 
the damp; very still; the river winding round the Hook in 
a pale and glistening link; the sky about the same color, 
which was no color at all, the leafless trees rising black as 
if photographed upon the gray. The river was lower than 
usual at this season, though it still flowed with a cruel mo- 
tion round that little promontory as if meaning to make 
that bit of vantage ground its own some day. Ally was 
very sad and quiet, walking up and down, feeling as if life 
had come altogether to a stand-still save for that one thing; 
nothing else happening; nothing else seeming ever likely t^o 
happen. That furtive little current which had seemed for 
a moment to rise in her own life had died away. It seemed 
a long time since those days when young Eochford had 
come so often to Pen ton Hook. Perhaps his desire to come 
often had something to do with the delay wLich had so 
changed the face of alfairs. This had ‘occurred to Ally 
more than once, and had given her a secret feeling that it 
was perhaps her fault, but she had not felt able to regret 
it. But now all that was over, and Mr. Eochford came no 
longer. There was nothing for him to come about; and 
Ally remembered with a sort of half pang, lialf shame, the 
reception which had been given to his mother and sister 
when they called, and the curious sense of mingled sujDerior- 
ity and inferiority which had overwhelmed her in their 
presence. They were far better acquainted with the world 


312 


A POOR GEKTLEMAiq-. 


than she was; they were “in society/^ or, at least, had 
that air of it which imposes upon simple people; but she 
was Miss Penton of Penton. 8he had felt then a great 
though always half-ashamed pleasure in remembering that 
elevation: but she had not the same sensations now. She 
felt that she was a snob (if a girl can be called a snob). 
She was ungrateful, for they had been very kind to her^ 
and. mean and petty, and everything that is most con- 
temptible — feeling herself, only because of Penton (in which 
there was no merit) somehow exalted above them, the 
solicitor's mother and sister. Many times since she had 
blushed at: that incident, and sometimes at the most inap- 
propriate moments; when she woke up in the middle of 
the night a flush would go over her from head to foot, 
thinking of what a poor creature, what a miserable little 
snob she was; a girl-snob, far worse than any other kind; 
worse than anything Mr. Thackeray had put in his book. 
Ally, like most people of her age, thought she did not like 
Mr. Thackeray, who seemed to her to make everybody look 
as if they had bad motives; but even he, so crushing as he 
was to a little girPs optimism, had not gone so far in his 
cynical views as to think of a snob who was a girl. Per- 
haps she was wrong here, putting limits which did not exist 
to the great humorist ^s imagination, but that was what she 
believed. And she was that girl-snob, which was a thing 
too bad to be conceived by fancy. She had repented this, 
and she had felt, though vaguely in the rush of other ex- 
periences, the blank that had fallen upon that opening 
chapter in which there had once seemed so much to come, 
but which had, to all appearance, ended all at once with- 
out anything coming of it. This chilled her gentle soul, 
she could scarcely tell why. How wretched that ball at 
Penton would have been to her, what a painful blight upon 
her girlish fancies^ if it had not been for these kind people, 
if it had not been for Mm, Yes; that was the chief point 
after all, though she was ashamed to admit it to herself. 
It had been a pleasant break upon the monotony of life 
when he paid these frequent visits, when he talked in that 
suggestive way, making her think of things which he did 
not mention, raising a soft commotion which she did not 
understand in her simple being. It had been like a chill 
to her to perceive that all this was over. It was all over 
and done with, apparently; it had all dropped like the fall- 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


813 


ing of a curtain over a drama just begun. She had wanted 
to know how it would all end, what its progress would be, 
the scenes that would follow: and lo, no scenes had followed 
at all, the curtain had come down. How wicked and 
wrong, how horrid it was to think of it at all in the midst 
of the great calamity that had fallen on the family, to wish 
even that mother might forget poor Wat for an hour, and 
go and call, and so make up for the coldness of Mrs. Koch- 
ford^s reception! This was a thing, however, which Ally 
had never suggested, which she thought it dreadful to have 
even thought of in the present trouble. She defended her- 
self to herself by saying that she had not thought of it — it 
had only flashed across her mind without any will of hers, 
which is a very different thing, as everybody knows. 

And was it possible while she wandered up and down, 
always with her attention fixed on the gate, always looking 
for news, for her father^s return, for a telegraph boy, for — 
oh, if that might be! for Walter himself; was it possible 
that some feeling about this other matter intruded into her 
mind and shared the thoughts which should have been all 
devoted to her brother? Ally trembled a little, but could 
not but blame herself, for she did nothing of the kind with 
her own will. She only felt a little chill, a little blank, a 
wonder how that story, if it had gone on, if the curtain had 
not fallen so abruptly, might have ended. It would have 
been interesting to know; a broken-off story is always 
tantalizing, distressful — the world becomes duller when it 
breaks off and you never know the end. Perhaps this had 
floated across her mind dimly, not interfering with the 
watch she was keeping, when suddenly the wheels which 
had been rolling along, not disturbing her attention — for 
they did not come in the direction whence news could be 
expected — startled her by suddenly stopping outside the 
gate. Who could it be? Her heart began to beat. She 
made a few steps quickly toward the gate. It could not be 
her father; could it be Walter bringing back his bride? 
What could it be? But ‘here suddenly her heart gave 
another bewildering spring. She felt her breath taken 
away altogether. The vehicle had stopped outside; and it 
was young Eochford, in all the gloss of his usual trim ap- 
pearance, with ther usual flower in his coat, who came for- 
ward, quickening his steps as he saw her. He did not look 
quite as he used to look. There was a little doubt about 


314 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


him, as though he did not know how he was to be received 
— a little pride, as of a man who would draw back at once 
if he were discouraged. Ally could not help making a few 
steps further to meet him. She was glad to meet him — 
oh, there was no doubt of that! — and not only so, but to 
feel the curtain slowly drawing up again, the story begin- 
ning once more, gave everything around a different aspect. 
She said, Oh, Mr. Eochford!^^ with a voice that had wel- 
come in it as well as surprise. 

have come about some business, he said; but his 
eyes had already asked several questions, and seemed to 
derive a certain satisfaction from the unspoken replies. 
He added, lowering his voice, I have been on the point 
of coming almost every day — but I felt as if perhaps — I 
might not be welcome. 

Why?^^ said Ally, with an astonished look, which had 
no guilt in it; for, indeed, it was not to him, but to hi» 
mother and sister, that she had felt herself to behave like 
a snob. 

I scarcely know/’ he said. I thought Sir Edward 
might feel perhaps that my delay — . But I always half felt. 
Miss Penton, that you — would be rather pleased with the 
delay: you and your brother.” 

‘‘ Yes,” she said, with a little shiver at Walter’s name; 

it was wrong, perhaps, to go against my father; but I 
think perhaps we were glad — a little. ” 

That has been a consolation; and then — But I must 
not trouble you with all my reasons for sta3dng away, when 
most likely you never observed that I stayed away at all.” 

Ally made no reply to this speech, which was so full of 
meaning. It was, indeed, so full of evident meaning that 
it put her on her guard. 

My father is in town,” she said, if it is business; but 
perhaps mother — ” 

‘‘ I am too glad,” he said, to meet you first, even for 
the business’ sake.” 

Ally looked up at him with wondering eyes. What she 
could have to do with business of any kind, what light he 
could expect her to throw on any such subject, she could not 
understand. But there was something soothing, something 
pleasant, in thus strolling along the path by the flowing 
river with him by her side. She forgot a little the watch 
she had been keeping upon the gate. She recollected that 


A POOR GE^sTLEMAN, 


315 


he had once told her his dream about a flood, and coming 
in a boat to her windov^", but that she would not take ad- 
vantage of the boat herself, only kept handing out the chil- 
dren to him one by one. How could he divine that she 
would do that? for of course that was exactly what she 
would do, if such a risk could ever happen, and if he should 
come to rescue her as in his dream. 

Somehow he led her without any apparent compulsion, 
yet by a persistent impulse, a little way out of sight of the 
house behind a tuft of shrubbery. The big laurels stood 
up in their glistening greenness and shut out the pair from 
the windows of the Hook. They were close to the gray 
swirl of the river running still and swift almost on a level 
with the bank, when he said to her suddenly with his eyes 
fixed on her face, ‘‘ I want to ask you something about 
your — brother. 

‘‘My brother!^^ cried Ally. There was a sudden wild 
flushing up of color which she felt to the roots of her hair, 
and then a chill fell upon her, and paleness. He was 
watching her closely, and though she was not aware of it 
she had answered his question. “ My brother, she repeat- 
ed, faltering, “Wat? he — he is not at home.^^ 

“Mies Penton,^^ said Kochford, “do you think you 
could trust me?^^ 

“ Trust you!^^ said Ally, her voice growing fainter: and 
then a great panic came over her. “ Oh! Mr. Eochford,’^ 
she cried, “ if anything has happened to Wat, tell me, tell 
me! It is the not knowing that is so dreadful to bear.^^ 

“ I hope nothing has happened to him,^^ he said, very 
gravely. “ It is only that 1 have had a letter from him, 
and I thought that perhaps your father had better know. 

“ Come in and see -mother,^ ^ said Ally, breathless. “ Oh 
yes, yes, we had better know, whatever it is. Mr. Eoch- 
ford, oh, I hope he is not ill. I hope nothing has haiD- 
pened.^^ 

“ I can not tell; he has written to me for money. 

“ For money !^^ she cried, thejexpectation in her face sud- 
denly dropping into a blank of astonishment .and almost 
disappointment. “ Was that all?^^ was the question writ- 
ten on Aliyas face. 

“ You donT think that means much? but 1 fear it means 
a great deal; he is living in London, and he is very young. 
You must not think me intrusive or meddling: it is that I 


316 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


am afraid of. Sir Edward might suppose, Miss Penton — 
your mother might think — it is a difficult thing for a man 
to do. I thought that you, perhaps, if I could see you, 
might have a little confidence in me.'’* 

Ally did not know how it was that a sense of sweetness 
and consolation should thus shed itself through her heart; 
it was momentary, for she had no time to think of herself, 
but it made everything so much more easy to her. She 
put out her hand involuntarily with a sudden sense that to 
have confidence in him was the most natural thing. Oh 
yes,^^ she said, ^^tell me, I have confidence. I am sure 
you would do nothing but what was kind; tell me, oh, tell 
me!^^ 

He took her hand; he had a right to do it, for she had 
offered it to him. ‘‘ Will you try to follow me and under- 
stand?*^ he said. ‘^It is business; it may be difficult for 
you, for Sir Edward will see the importance of it. ** And 
then he told her, Ally bending all her unused faculties to 
the work of understanding, how Walter had gone to him 
before he left home at all to get money, and how he had 
heard from him again, twice over, asking for more. Ally 
listened with horror growing in her heart, but perhaps the 
young man, though he was very sympathetic, was scarcely 
so sorry as he look^ed: and perhaps to seek her out and tell 
her this story was not what a man of higher delicacy would 
have done. But then Eochford*s desire to be of use to 
Walter was largely intermingled with his desire to recom- 
mend himself to Walter *s sister. He would have done it 
anyhow out of pity for the boy and his parents, but to 
secure for himself a confidential interview with Ally, and 
to have this as a secret between them, and her as his em- 
bassador and elucidator to her parents, was what he could 
not deny himself. He was sorry for Walter, who was most 
likely spoiling his boyish life, and whom it would be right 
to call back and restrain: but yet he was almost glad of the 
occasion which brought him so near the girl whom he loved. 
She on her part listened to him with excitement, with relief, 
with the horror of ignorancb, with an underlying conscious- 
ness that all must now come right. 

If Sir Edward will let me I will go,** Eochford said. 

I shall be able to get hold of him perhaps easier than any 
one who has authority. ** 

Oh, how kind you are,** said Ally. 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


317 


Kind! I would lie down and let him walk over me to 
please you/^ the young man murmured^, as if it were to 
himself. 

It was partly to escape from the embarrassment of such 
murmurs, though they were sweet enough, and partly to 
escape from the curious process which was turning her 
trouble into a semblance of happiness against her will, and 
without any consent of hers, that Ally insisted at last on 
carrying this information to her mother. How could she 
think you intrusive when you bring her news of 
cried the girl, betraying all the anxiety of the family with- 
out knowing it; and she hurried him in to where Lady Pen- 
ton sat in the window, looking out languidly and often lay- 
ing down her work to gaze. She, too, flushed with anxious 
interest to hear of Walter^s letter. 

And when Sir Edward came home, he found the lawyer^s 
dog-cart still at the door, and the young man, surrounded 
by the three anxious ladies, laying down his plan to them 
as one who was master of the situation. I will go at once 
if you will let me; I’ll get hold of him easier than any one 
who has a right to And fault, young Eochford was say- 
ing, when, cold and hungry and discouraged, and with a 
smoldering fury against all the world in his heart. Sir Ed- 
ward pushed the door open and found him there. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE POOR BOY, 

Walter had plunged into London as a diver plunges 
into the sea. He was in search of but one thing: to find 
her again who had eluded him, who had drawn him after 
her by the strongest chains that can draw the imagination 
at his age, by all the tantalizing of vague promises, avoid- 
ing fulfillment, of vague engagements which came to noth- 
ing, and last of all by this sudden flight, a provocation 
more audacious than any that went before. Could he ever 
have expected that she would go with him, to wait all the 
preliminaries which (as she knew so much better than he 
did) must precede any possible marriage.^ When he came 
to think of it by the light of the morning, which alters the 
aspect of so many things, he saw quite plainly that this 
was not a thing he could have expected of her. She was 


318 


A POOR, GENTLEMAN. 


very daring, he thought, and frank, and secure in her own 
innocence, but this was not a thing which she could be ex- 
pected to do. He had been foolishly miserable, disap- 
pointed to the bottom of his soul, when he heard that she 
had gone away. The night he had spent trying to sleep, 
trying to get through the black hours that made any enter- 
prise impossible, had been terrible to him; but with the 
morning there had come a better cheer. Of course, he said 
to himself! How could he be so imbecile, so silly, as to 
think differently. Of course she would not go with him 
under such circumstances; and it was delicacy on her part 
that prevented her from saying so. There are, times when 
it is a failure of modesty even to suggest that modesty re- 
quires certain precautions. Therefore she had not said it. 
Impossible for her pure lips, for her pure mind, to put 
Into words the idea that he and she, like any noble knight 
and maiden, might not have gone together blameless to the 
end of the world. But she had felt that in the present 
artificial state of the world it was better not to do this, and 
she had acted without saying anything, confident that he 
would understand. There is no limit to the ingenuity of a 
lover in framing excuses for the actions of the person be- 
loved, Instead of being blamable, was not this another 
proof of her perfection, of the sensitive delicacy of all her 
thoughts, she who was so little bound by conventional laws? 
The mixture of freedom and of reserve, Walter said to 
himself, was what he had above all admired and adored in 
her. It was his own stupidity, not any fault of hers, that 
had given him so wretched a night, such a sense of deser- 
tion and abandonment. He remembered now that he had 
caught the address of the box which stood half packed in 
the room where she had talked to him, in Orockford^s cot- 
tage. 

He comprehended everything now. She had taken 
him there that he should see it, that he should be able to 
follow her, without the need of saying a word. Oh, how 
well he understood it all! Had they gone together every 
circumstance would have been embarrassing; the mere 
payments to be made, the railway tickets, the cabs, every- 
thing would have been awkward. How well (he thought 
to himself) her fine sense had divined this, perceived it 
when he saw nothing! That was no doubt the woman^s 
part, to divine what could and could not be done — to settle 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


319 ^ 


it all swiftly, silently, without any need of talk, which 
would have been more embarrassing still. 

These thoughts carried him as on fairy wings to the rail- 
way station on the dark and cold morning of his flight from 
home. He had Eochford^s fifty pounds in his pockety 
which seemed to his inexperience a fortune, a sum he would 
never get through, and which was his own, not taken. from 
his father, or lessening the means at home, but his, to do 
what he liked with. With that in his pocket, and the de- 
lightful confidence that Emmy had not abaudoned him — 
that, on the contrary, she had done what was ideally right, 
the very thing that if he had understood, if he had not been 
dull beyond example, he would have liked her to do — Wal- 
ter rushed from his father^s house with not too much 
thought of the wretchedness he was leaving behind. He 
would not think of that, nor did he feel himself at all con- 
strained to do so. Why should they be miserable? He was 
old enough to know how to take care of himself. A man 
did get helpless, almost effeminate, living so much at home; 
but, after all, he could not be made a fuss over as if he 
were a lost child. They would understand at least that he 
could take care of himself. And then he reflected, with a 
smile about the corners of his mouth, they would soon 
know why it was. If at the bottom of his heart there 
might be a thrill of alarm as to how they would take it, 
yet on the surface he felt sure that Emmy^s beauty and 
charm would overcome all objections; and then it was nob 
as if he were a boy dependent on his father's bounty. That 
ten thousand pounds made all the difference! He had 
thought at first that it was a mean tiling to suppose that it 
made any difference or disturbed any of the bonds of duty: 
but now his mind was changed, and he perceived that a 
man has his own career to think of, that nature forbids him 
to be always in a state of subordination to his father — nat- 
ure, and the consciousness that he has enough of his own to 
live upon without troubling his father. Yes, it made a 
difference, not only on the surface, but fundamentally, a 
difference which was real; and then the present matter was 
not one of a day. It concerned, he said to himself with 
tremendous gravity, the happiness of his life. How could 
a little anxiety on the part of his parents, a little quite 
groundless anxiety, be compared to that? Even to be 
brutal, he said to himself, as he must live longer than they 


‘320 


A POOR GEIS^TLEMAK’. 


could, his happiness was of the most importance, even if it 
should aifect permanently their peace of mind; and it was 
only for a time, a few weeks, a few days. Whai^compari- 
son was there? Even father himself, who was a just man, 
would see and acknowledge this. And as for his mother — 
oh, mother would forgive! That was easily settled. She 
might be unhappy for a moment, but she would rather be 
unhappy than condemn him to life-long misery. That he 
was very sure of; if the choice were given she would accept 
that which was best for him. Thus Walter completely 
vindicated to himself what he was doing; and before he 
got to the railway, which was a long way off, and gave 
time for all these elaborations of thought, lie was con- 
vinced that what he was doing was what, on the whole, if 
they knew all the circumstances, they would like him to 
do. 

An ordeal which he had not calculated upon met Him 
when he reached London. The address which he had seen 
on Emmy^s box was in an out-of-the-way and poor place, 
though Walter, knowing nothing of town, did not know 
how much out of the way it was. He left his bag at a hotel, 
and then he went on in a hansom through miles and miles 
of squalid streets, until at length he reached the goal of his 
hopes. The goal of his hopes! Was it so? As he stood 
at the poor little narrow door the ideas with which he had 
contemplated Crockford^s cottage came into his mind. He 
had persuaded himself into thinking that Crockford^s cot- 
tage was in its way as venerable as Penton; but this No. 
37 Albert Terrace, what was there to be said for it? He 
could not restrain a little shudder, nor could he, when he 
was shown into the little parlor on the ground-floor, look 
round him without a gasp of disma}-. The only consola- 
tion he could get out of it was that he could take Emmy 
away, that this was indeed his object here, to take her away, 
to separate her from everything that was squalid and 
miserable, to surround her with the graces and luxuries of 
a very different kind of life. But even the aspect of the 
house, and of the little parlor, which was full of dirty 
finery and hung round with photographs and colored pict- 
ures of a woman in various theatrical dresses, with whom 
he never associated the object of his affections, was nothing 
to the shock which Walter sustained when the door opened 
and the original of these portraits presented herself, a large 


A POOR GEKTLEMAI^’. 


321 


faded woman, very carelessly dressed, and with the smile 
which was beaming around him from all the walls, the 
stereotyped smile of the stage, upon her face. To realize, 
as he did by and by, that this was her mother ^ to feel that 
she had a right to ask him questions, and consider him with 
a judicial air, as one who had in her greasy hands, which 
were so disagreeably soft, and felt as if they were pomaded, 
the thread of his life, gave poor young Wat such a shock as 
took the words from his lips. He stared at her without 
knowing what to say to her in a dismay which could find 
no expression. No, Emmy was not there. Her occupation 
required that she should live in another part of London. 
No, she did not know that she could give him her daugh- 
ter's address — but if he returned in the evening he might 
perhaps see her. 

You are Mr. Fenton? Oh, yes, she has spoken of you. 
She feared that perhaps you would take this step. But, 
Mr. Fenton, my daughter is a girl of the highest principle. 
She can see you only under her mother’s roof. ” 

“ I wish nothing else!” cried poor Wat. I — I am ready 
to do whatever she pleases. She knows I am ready — she 
knows—” 

Yes,” said the mother, nodding her terrible head, 
upon which was banded and braided and plaited more hair 
tnan ever grew, and smiling her terrible smile, and putting 
forth that odious hand to give a little confidential pressure 
to his. I also know a great deal, Mr. Fenton. I have 
heard about you — your chivalry and your magnificent posi- 
tion, and your many, many qualities. But, as you know, 
a mother’s duty is to guard her child. I know the shares 
of life better than she; I have trodden the thorny way be- 
xore her, young gentleman. I have myself experienced 
much which — I would save her from,” added the woman, 
with the imposing gesture of a mere noble, turning away her 
head and extending her band as if to hold the gay deceiver 
at a distance. 

He was the wolf at the gate of the sheepfold, it appeared. 
Alas, poor Wat! he did not recognize himself from that 
point of view. Was not he more like the poor strayed 
lamb, straying in ignorantly into the midst of the slayers? 
He was glad to get away, to bring this alarming, unex- 
pected interview to an end: all the more that it had begun 
to be apparent to him, in a way that made his heart sick, 

5-2d half. 


322 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


that iiPthe face of this vvomaii;, with all its traces of paint 
and powder, and in the little gestures and tricks of tone 
and movement, there were resemblances, frightful resem- 
blances, suggestive of his Emmy; that it was possible she 
might some day — oh, horrible thought! — be like her moth- 
er. But no, he cried to himself! the marks which her pro- 
fession had left — the lines under her eyes, the yellow stains 
of the rouge, the unwholesome softness of her pomaded 
hands — froai all those he had come to deliver Emmy; these 
artificial evils never need to be hers. She should smile 
upon people who loved her, not upon the horrible public 
staring at her and her beauty. As he turned away from 
the place he even said to himself that this poor woman was 
not to blame for all those blemishes of self -deco ration. It 
had been her trade; she had been compelled to do it. Who 
had any right to blame her? These might be as honorable 
scars as those which a soldier gets in battle. Perhaps she 
had to do it to get bread for herself and her child— to brings 
up Emm}?’ and make her what he knew her. If that should 
be so, were not the traces of what she had gone through^ 
of what she had had to bear, to be respected, venerated 
ev6n, like any other marks of painful toil? He made these 
representations hotly to himself, but he did not find that 
any ingenuity of thought delivered him from that honor and 
repulsion. To see the rouge and the powder on the face of 
a young woman still playing her part was one thing; to 
mark the traces of them on the vulgarized and faded coun- 
tenance of one whose day was over was quite another. It 
was unjust, but it was natural. And this was Emmy^s. 
mother, and Emmy was like her. Oh, that such a thing 
should be! 

After this came the strangest episode that could occur iijc 
a young man^s life. He was afloat on London, on that sea 
of pleasure and misery, amid all the perils and temptatioris 
that made the hearts of those who loved him sink within 
them. Even little Mab, with her little stock of worldly 
knowledge, who thought he would return home when he 

tired, or when his money was done, could form no other 
idea of the prodigal than that he was living in pleasure. He 
was amusing himself, Kochford thought, not without a half 
sympathy in the break-out of the home boy. As for hi& 
father and mother, unutterable terrors were in their minds,. 
Jears of they knew not what — of vice and depravity, evil 


A POOR GEKTLEMAX. 


323 


associates, evil habits, the things that kill both body and 
soul. But Walter^s present life was a life more tedious 
than all the monotony- of home. It had its bright mo- 
ments, when he was with Emmy, who sometimes permitted 
him to take her to the play, sometimes to walk with her 
through the bright-lighted streets, sometimes even on 
Saturday afternoons or Sunday to take her to the country. 
It was only on these days that he saw her in daylight at all. 
She said, laughingly, that her occupation forbade it at other 
times, but she would not tell him what that occupation 
was. When they went to Richmond or Greenwich, or to a 
little box in one or other of the theaters, where they could 
sit half hidden by the curtains, and carry on their own little 
drama, which was more interesting than anything on the 
stage, Walter was in a strange elysium, in which the atmos- 
phere was charged with painful elements, yet was more 
sweet than anything else in life. He made a hundred dis- 
coveries in her, sometimes sweet, sometimes — dilferent. It 
made no alteration in his sentiment when they happened 
to be discoveries that wounded — sometimes even that 
shocked him. He was hurt, his sensitive nature felt the 
shock as if it had been a wound; but it did nut affect his 
love. That love even changed a little — it became protect- 
ing, forgiving, sometimes remonstrating; he longed that 
she should be his, that he might put all that right, mold 
her to a more exquisite model, smooth away the points that 
jarred. Already he had begun to hint this and that to lier, 
to persuade her to one little alteration and another. To 
speak more softly — she had spoken softly enough at Crock- 
ford^s, it was only the spirit of the street that had got into 
her blood — to move more gently, to know that some of the 
things she said were dreadful things — things that should not 
-come from such lips. He had not perceived any of these 
things while she was at Crockford^s; he perceived them 
now, but they did not affect his love, they only penetrated 
that golden web with threads of shadow, with lines of pain, 
and smote his heart with keen arrows of anguish and re- 
gret — regret not that he had given his life and love to her, 
but only that she was less perfect than he had thought — 
that, instead of looking up to her always, and shaping his 
harsher being (as he had thought) upon her sweetness, it 
must be his first to shape and pare these excrescences away. 

But, besides these glimpses of a paradise which had many 


324 


A POOR GENTLEMAN^. 


features of purgatory, Walter had nothing at all to counter- 
balance the havoc he was making in his existence. He did 
not know what to do with himself in London. He rose 
late, having no occupation for the morning; he wandered 
about the streets; he eat the late breakfast and dinner, 
which were now all the meals he had time for, spinning out 
these repasts as long as possible. It was a wonder that he 
never met his father, who was straying about the streets in 
search of him; but Walter^s streets were not those which 
his father frequented. He acquired, or rather both 
acquired, a great knowledge of town in these perambula- 
tions, but not of the same kind. And then he would go. to 
his occupation, the only tangible thing in his life, the meet- 
ing with Emmy. She was sadly shifty and uncertain even 
in these scraps of her time, which were all she would or 
could give him. She was not sure that she wanted to 
marry him at all. She was quite sure that she would only 
be married by special license at four in the afternoon, which 
was all the fashion now. But no; he was not to take that 
oath and make himself unhappy about her. He should not 
be obliged to swear. She would be married by bans — that 
was the fashion too. She knew all about what had to be 
done — everything that was necessary — but she would not 
tell him. She laughed and eluded him as before. Then 
she said. Why should they marry? they were very well sls 
they were. You are very good to me at presen t,^^ she 
said; you think I must have a box whenever we go to the 
theater, and a bouquet, and everything that is nice; but 
after we are married, you will not be so kind.'’^ 

When Walter protested that neither marriage nor an)’’- 
thing else could diminish his devotion, she shook her head, 
and said that they would not be able to afford it. 

You caiiT have so much as five hundred a year,'’^ she 
said; most likely not more than four — and what would 
that be in London?^ ^ 

But we need not live in London,^^ he said; my father 
would give us the Hook.^^ 

Emmy threw up her arms with a scream. 

Should you like to murder mer^^ she cried. 

It hurt the poor boy that she should have this opinion of 
his home — the home in which he had been born ; and he 
listened with deep depression to the satirical description of 
it she began to make. 


A POOR GEXTLEMAX. 


325 


“ We ought to be ducks to live in the damp like that. 
I^ve never been used to dabble in the water, and it would 
be my death — I know it would be my death. But we might 
let it, you know, and that would give us a little more 
money, say two hundred a year more — do you think it 
would bring two hundred a year?^^ 

‘‘ Don^’t talk of such things cried the young man; ‘‘ it 
is not for you to be troubled about that. 

And for whom is it, then?^^ she cried, for you know 
no more than a baby; and I believe you think we are to 
live like the birds on worms and seeds, and anything else 
that turns up.^^ 

Walter had never left her with so heavy a.heart as on 
this evening. He was entirely cast down by her hesitations, 
her doubts, the contempt with which she spoke of the fort- 
une which he had thought magnificent in his ignorance, and 
the home which he loved. He went back to his hotel with 
a heavy heart. He had given up everything for her — all 
the other objects that made life of importance. He had 
put himself altogether at her disposal, and lived but for the 
moments of their meeting. What wks he to do if she de- 
spised him — if she cast him off? A faint sense of the pitiful 
part he had to play began vaguely to awaken in his mind, 
not moving him to the length of rebellion, nor even to the 
exercise of his critical faculties, only to misery and a chili 
suspicion that, instead of sharing the fervor of his feelings, 
she was weigliing him in terrible scales of judgment, esti- 
mating what he was worth — a process which made Walter’s 
heart sink. For what was he worth? — unless it might hajD- 
pen to be love — in repayment of that which he gave. 

And next evening when he went to the house, which he 
always approached with a shiver, afraid of meeting the 
mother, relieved when he found his love alone, he suddenly 
found himself in the presence he dreaded with a shock of 
alarm and surprise: for Emmy, whose perceptions were 
keen enough on this point, generally contrived to spare 
him the meeting which she divined he feared. Mrs. Sam 
Crockford met him with her sunniest smile. She caressed 
his hand with those large, soft, flaccid fingers from which 
he shrunk. “ She is not in, but 1 have a message for you, 
my dear young sir,” she said. 

Not in!” cried Walter, his heart sinking into hk 
boots. 


326 


A POOR GEISTTLEMAN^. 


She is engaged elsewhere. May I tell you the truth, 
Mr. Penton? She has confidence in her mother. I am her 
only protector, for her step-father, though an honest fellow, 
does not count, being in another walk of life. I am her 
only protector, young gentleman. 

‘‘ But purely, surely she doesiiH want protection — from 
me?^^ 

Pardon me, my dear Mr. Penton, that is exactly where 
she wants protection — from you, that is, from her own 
heart, from her own treacherous, foolish heart. What have 
you to offer her, that is the question? She has had very 
good offers. There is one at present, hung up, so to speak, 
because she does not know her own mind. 

Let me gpeak to her,^^ said Walter, hoarsely. She 
can not intend to desert me after all — after all!’^ 

‘‘Dear boy cried the woman, pressing his hand once 
more with hers, “ how I admire such impetuosity. But 
you must remember my duty as a mother. You have noth- 
ing to settle on her, Mr. Penton. Yes, I understand your 
ten thousand pounds; but you are not of age. You canT 
even make your will or sign the settlements till you are of 
age. She has very good offers, no one could have better. 
Shall I tell you,^^ said Emmy^s mother, with the most 
ingenuous and ingratiating of smiles, “ shall I tell you 
what I should do if I were you? I w^ould not allow her to 
sacrifice herself. I would rather, much rather, that the 
sacrifice was on my side.^^ 

“ Sacrifice he cried, feeling the dreadful little room 
reel round him. 

“ What else can you call it, Mr. Penton? You will not 
be twenty-one till the autumn, I hear. October, is it? 
And in the meantime my chyild has to toil. Conceive a 
creature of her refined and sensitive temperament, young 
gentleman! a girl not adapted to face the world. 

This confused Walter, who could not but feel that Emmy 
was very well qualified to face the world, and to whom she 
seemed a sort of ITna triumphant over it; biit he would not 
reply on this score. All he could say was an impassioned, 
offer if she would only accept — if her mother w^ould but 
accept— all that he had. What could it matter, when so 
soon everything he had would be hers? 

The mother put away his offer with her large white ’ 
hand, turning her shoulder to him and half averting her 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 


327 

t ad. Money! I dare not propose it; I dare not suggest 
though it is most generous, most noble on your part,^^ 
^he added, turning round suddenly, seizing his hand in 
both of hers with a soft lingering pressure, which poor 
Walter could not .help feeling left something of the pomade 
behind. Then she subsided into a more majestic pose. 

But, dear fellow, what have you?’^ she said, with a sort 
of caressing reflectiveness. It ail seemed like a scene in a 
play to Walter, notwithstanding that he himself was one of 
the actors. What have you?^^ she said, with a , sort of 
tender regret. Your agent will soon tire of making you 
advances, and every advance diminishes your capital. We 
are talking of marriage, my dear young gentleman, not of 
mere amusement and spending your money free, as some 
young men will do to please a girl they are in love with; 
but the object of my life has been to bring up my girl re- 
spectable, and nothing of that sort is possible. She waved 
her hand, dismissing the idea, while Walter stood stupefied,, 
gazing at her. It is a question of marriage, she added, 
with solemnity; and what have you to offer — expecta- 
tions?^^ Then she sunk her voice to a sort, of stage whisper. 

Do you know that your father is after you, young sir? 
He has been here. 

Here!^’ said the boy, in sudden alarm and dismay. 

She nodded her head slowly and solemnly. ‘‘ Here. I 
need not say I gave him no information: but if you rely 
upon him to receive and support you, as my child has told 
me — Young Mr. Penton, Emmy must not be exposed to 
an angry father^s wrath. 

My father here!^^ He looked round him, at the room, 
at the woman, at all these dreadful accessories, with a sink- 
ing heart. He seemed to see them all through his father’ & 
eyes, who had never seen Emmy, and to himself they were 
terrible enough, with all the charm that she exercised. 

No!’’ she said, raising her arm. I can not have her 
exposed to an angry father’s wrath. Mr. Penton, this suit 
of yours must come to an end.” 

I must see Emmy,” he cried, with confused misery.. 
I must see Emmy; don’t, don’t, for pity’s sake, say any 
more. It is she who must decide.” 

Pardon me; she takes her own way in small matters, 
but in this a mother is the best judge. Mr. Penton, she 
must not be exposed to an angry — ” 


■328 


A POOR GENTLEMAISr. 


I must see Emmy, I must see Emmy/r cried poor 
Walter. He was capable of no other thought. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A MORE CHEERFUL VIEW. 

Sir Edward, with more than the usual irritation in his 
countenance, contemplated the new member of the family 
council. He had come in with a great deal to say, and the 
sight of Eochford was like a sudden check, unlocked for, 
•and most unwelcome. He had, indeed, begun to speak, 
throwing himself into a chair. I^^e got my trouble 
for my pains — when he perceived that the weariness, 
the contrariety, the trouble in his face, had been betrayed 
to a stranger. He pulled himself up with a sudden effort. 

Ah, Eochford/^ he said, with an attempt at a smiling 
welcome, which was as much out of his usual habits as of 
his present state of mind. 

Edward, said his wife, Mr. Eochford has heard 
from Walter. He' came to bring us the letter; he has some 
information, and he knows, oh, more than any of us— from 
the first. 

What is it he knows? cried the father, exasperMed, 
with a start of energy in defense of his jirivacy and of his 
son. He looked wdth his angry, troubled eyes at the in- 
truder with an angry defiance and contempt. Eochford 
the solicitor! the man of business, a man whom indeed he 
could not treat as an inferior, but who had no claim to 
place himself on the same level as a Penton of Penton. He 
had not hitherto shown any disposition to stand on his 
dignity to make the difference between the old level and the 
new. But that this young fellow should presume to bring 
information about his son, to thrust in a new and intrusive 
presence into a family matter, was more than he could 
bear. I am very glad to consult Mr. Eochford on mat- 
ters wdthin his range, he added, with an angry smile, 
but this is a little, just a little, out of his sphere. 
^^Edward!^^ cried Lady Penton, and ^‘^Eather!^^ cried 
Ally; the latter with an indignation and resentment which 
surprised herself. But to hear him, so kind as he was, put 
down so, put aside when he wanted nothing but to help, 
had become suddenly intolerable to Ally. Why should 


A POOR GENTLEMA]^. 


32 ^ 


Walter, who was behaving so unkindly, be considered so 
much above him, who had come out of his way to help? 
An impulse almost of indignation against Walter filled her 
mind, and she felt ready to silence her father himself, to 
demand what he meant. She did not herself comprehend 
the fervor of new feeling, the opposition, the resentment 
that filled her heart. 

When Sir Edw^ard reads this letter he will under^ 
stand, said the young man, who kept liis temper admira- 
bly. He was ready to bear a great deal 'more than that,, 
having so much at stake. And he for his part was quite 
aware that for a Rochford of Reading to ally himself to the 
Pentons of Penton was a great matter, and one which 
might naturally meet with opposition. To have his part 
taken by Ally was a great matter — he could put up with 
her father^s scorn for a time. 

Sir Edward read the letter, and his serious countenance 
grew more somber still. From this it appears that rny 
son has applied to you for money? I am sorry he has done 
it, but I don't see that it tells any more. Walter has not 
made a confidant of you that I can see. My dear, I don't 
mean to be disagreeable to Mr. Rochford; but he must see,, 
any one might see, that a family matter — a — a consultation 
among ourselves — a question which has nothing to do with 
the public — " 

I am your man of business. Sir Edward," said Roch- 
ford. My family have known the secrets of yours long 
before my time. I don't think we have ever betrayed our 
trust. Your son has put some information into my hands. 
I did not think I was justified in keeping it from you, and 
I think, if you will let me, that I can help you. Intrusion 
was not what I meant." 

He was the least excited of that tremulous party, and he 
felt that the object which was before him was well worth a 
struggle; but at the same time the young man was not with- 
out a certain generosity of purpose, a desire to help these 
troubled and anxious people. To Ally his attitude was 
entirely one of generosity and nobleness. He had come in 
the midst of the darkness to bring the first ray of light, 
and he was too magnanimous to be disgusted or repulsed 
by the petulance of her father's distress. If he had a more 
individual motive it was that of pleasing her. and that was 


330 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


no selfish motive, surely. That added— how could it be 
otherwise? — a charm to all the rest in her dazzled eyes. 

‘‘Mr. Eochford is very kind, Edward, said Lady Pen- 
ton. “ AVhy should we not take the help he offers? He is 
a young man, he understands their ways, not like you, and 
me. The young ones understand each other, just as we 
understand each other. They haven T the same way of 
judging. They donT think how their fathers and mothers 
suffer at home. Oh, let him go! it isnT as if he would 
talk of it and betray us. Listen, to him. He has known 
of this all the time, and he hasn^'t betrayed us. Oh, let 
him go/’ 

“ Go! where is he to go?^^ 

“ To find Walter, they all cried together. 

“ It is killing you,^^ said Lady Penton. “ Let the young 
man — who doesnT feel as we do, who doesiPt think of it as 
we do — let him go, Edward. It seems so dreadful to us, 
but not to him. He thinks that probably there is nothing 
dreadful in it at all, that it is a thing that — a thing that — 
boys do: they are so thoughtless — they do it, meaning no 
particular harm.^^ 

“ There is something in that,^^ said Sir Edward, with 
relief. “ I am glad you begin to see it in that way, my 
dear. It is more silly than wrong — I have thought so all 
along. ^ 

“ That is what Mr. Eochford says. He is a young man 
himself. He thinks the boy will never have considered — 
and that as soon as he thinks, as soon as he finds out — Ed- 
ward, we mustn^t be tragical about it. I see it now as 
you say. Stay at home — you have so many things to think 
of — and let the young man go. They understand each 
other between themselves, Lady Penton said, with a 
somewhat wan smile. 

And then Sir Edward began to relax a little. “ Eochford 
is right there, ^ Hie said. “ It is perhaps a good thing to have 
a manH view. You, of course, were always unduly fright- 
ened, my dear. As for not writing, that is so common a 
thing — I could have told you all that. But, naturally, see- 
ing you in such a state has affected me. When you are 
married,^^ he said, turning to Eochford with a faint smile, 
“ you will find that though you may think it weak of her, 
or even silly, the color’ of your thoughts will alivays be 
affected by your wife’^/’ 


A POOR GENTLEMAiq^. 


331 


This speech produced a curious little momentary dramatic 
scene which had nothing to do with the question in hand^ 
Eochford^s eyes instinctively flashed a glance at Ally, who^ 
though hers were cast down, saw it, and flamed into sud- 
den crimson, the consciousness of which filled her with 
shame and confusion. Her blush threw a reflection instan- 
taneous, like the flash of a fire, over him, and lighted up 
his eyes with a glow of delight, to conceal which he too 
looked down, and answered, with a sort of servile respect,. 
‘‘ I have no doubt of it whatever, sir; and it ought to be 

Well, perhaps theoretically it ought to be so,^^ Sir Ed- 
ward said, who noticed nothing, and whose observation was 
not at any time quick enough to note what eyes say to eyes* 
Now that it was all explained and settled, and he felt that 
it was by his wife’s special interposition that Kochford had 
been taken into favor, there could be no doubt that it was 
a comfort to have a man, with all the resources of youth 
and an immediate knowledge of that world which Sir Ed- 
ward was secretly aware he had almost forgotten, to take 
counsel with. His spirits rose. His trouble had been 
greatly intensified by that sensation of helplessness which 
had grown upon him as he wandered about the London 
streets, sick at heart, obstinate, hopeless, waiting upon 
chance, which is so poor a support. This day he had been 
more hopeless than ever, feeling his impotence with that 
sickening sense of being able to do nothing, to think of 
nothing, which is one of the most miserable of sensations* 
It was so far from true that he had taken the color of his 
thoughts from his wife, or felt alter s absence more light- 
ly than she had done, that it was he who had been the pessi- 
mist all along, whose imagination and memory had^ 
furnished a thousand stories of ruin and the destruction of 
the most hopeful of young men, and to whom it was almost 
impossible to communicate any hopefulness. But a part- 
nership of any kind is of great use in such circumstances, 
and above all the partnership of marriage, in which one 
can always put the blame upon the other with the advan- 
tage of being himself able to believe that the matter really 
stands so. Lady Penton did not complain. She was will- 
ing enough to bear the blame. Her own heart was much 
relieved by Rochford’s cheerful intimation that Walter’s 
little escapade was the commonest thing in the world, and 


332 ' 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


most probably meant nothing at all. If it might but be 
so! If it were only his thoughtlessness, the folly of a boy! 
At least if that could not be believed it was still a good 
thing and most fortunate that people should think so, and 
the man who suggested it endeared himself to the mother^s 
heart. 

And then another and more expansive consultation be- 
gan. On ordinary occasions Sir Edward allowed himself to 
be questioned, giving brief answers, sometimes breaking off 
impatiently, shutting liimself up in a troubled silence, 
from which an unsatisfactory scrap of revelation unwilling- 
ly dropped would now and then come. Sometimes he 
drove them all away from him with the morose irritation 
of his unsuccess. What did it matter what he had done in 
town, when it all came to nothing, when it was of no con- 
sequence, and brought no result? But to-day he spoke with 
a freedom which he had never shown before. Everything 
was more practical, more possible. The new agent had to 
be informed of all the facts upon which perhaps his better 
knowledge of such matters might throw new light. Sir 
Edward confessed that he had extracted from old Crock- 
ford the address of the girTs mother, Though I could 
not allow — though I mean I feel sure that the boy nev-er 
mixed himself up with people of that sort,^^ he added, with 
his little air of superiority; then described Mrs. Sam Crock- 
ford to them, and her declaration that she knew nothing of 
the young gentleman. In his heart of hearts Sir Edward 
did not believe this any more than Eochford did, but it 
gave him a countenance, it supported his new theory, the 
theory so adroitly suggested to him that Walter after all 
was probably not much to blame. This theory was a 
greater consolation than can be told to all of them. Xot 
much to blame! Careless only, amusing himself, a thing 
which most youths of his age did somehow or other. Of 
course, Eochford said, there are some preternatural 
boys who never tear their pinafores or do anything they 
ought not to do. Thus he conveyed to their minds a 
suggestion that it was in fact rather spirited and fine of 
Walter to claim the emancipation which was natural to his 
kind. The load which was thus lifted from their gentle 
bosoms is not to be described. Lady Penton indeed knew 
better, but yet was so willing to be deceived, so ready to be 
persuaded! And Sir Edw^ard knew — oh, a great many 


A POOK GENTLEMAI5-. 


333 


yariations of the theme, better and worse — but yet was 
willing too to take the young man^s word for it, the young 
man who belonged to Walter ^s generation and knew what 
was in the minds of the boys as none of the others could 
do. He brought comfort to all their hearts, both to those 
who had experience of life and those who had none, by his 
bold assumption of an easy knowledge. I have no 
doubt, if truth were told, he is dying to come home,^^ 
Rochford said, and very tired of all the noise and non- 
sense that looks so pleasant at a distance. I know how one 
feels in such circumstances — bored to death, finding idle- 
ness and the theaters and all that sort of thing the dreariest 
routine, and yet ashamed to own it and come back. Oh, 
he only wants to see a little finger held up to him from 
home, 1 know!^^ said the young fellow, with a laugh. He 
did himself the greatest injustice, having been all his life 
of the order of those who have the greatest repugnance to 
dirtying their pinafores. But love and policy, and pity as 
well, inspired him, and his laugh was the greatest comfort 
in the world to all those aching hearts. He took down 
Mrs. Sam Crockford^s address, and all the information 
which could be given to him; the very sight of liis little 
note-book inspiring his audience with confidence. The 
thing for me to do,” he said, is to take him myself the 
money lie wants. Though the address he gives is only at 
a post-office 1 shall find him out- — and perhaps take a day 
or two^s amusement in his company,” he added, with a 
smile. 

Oh, Mr. Rochford, that would be kindness indeed!” 
Lady Renton said. 

And Ally gave him a look — what did it say? Promises, 
pledges, a whole world of recompense was in it. He said, 
with another little laugh of confidence and self-satisfaction, 
not untouched with emotion, Yes, I think that^s the 
best way. I^ll get him to take me about, I only a country 
fellow, and he up to all the ways of town; and it will be 
strange if we donT get to be on confidential terms; and as 
I feel quite certain he is dying to come home — ” 

‘‘Most likely, most likely,” said Sir Edward. It was, 
as Rochford felt, touch and go, very delicate work with Sir 
Edward. A word too much, a look even, might be enough 
to remind Walter ^s father that he was the head of the house 
of Fenton, and that this was only his man of business. 


334 


A POOR GENTLEMAlSr. 


The young lawyer was acute enough to see that, and wise 
enough to restrain the natural desire to enlarge upon what 
he could do, which the intoxication of feminine belief 
which was round him encouraged and called forth. He 
subdued himself with a self-denial which was very worthy 
of credit, but which no one gave him any credit for. And 
by this time the afternoon was spent, darkness coming on, 
and it was necessary he should go home: he felt this to be 
expedient in the state of alfairs, though it was hard to go 
without a word from Ally, without a moment of that more 
intimate consultation, all in the erring brother's interests,, 
which yet drew these two so much closer together. “ 1 
will come this way,’^ he said, as they all went with him to 
the door where the dog-cart was standing, to-morrow, 
on my way to town, to see if there are any last directions — 
anything you wish to suggest. Sir Edward — anything that 
may occur to you in the meantime, which I might carry 
out.'’^ 

Yes, perhaps that \Yill be well,^^ Sir Edward said. 

To go direct from you will give me so much more in- 
fluence.^^ 

“Yes, yes,^^ he said impatiently. It was very delicate 
work with Sir Edward. “ Telegraph if I^m wanted. Of 
course I am ready — whatever is wanted.^’ 

“And you will let us know at once, oh, at once, Mr. 
Eochford; you know how anxious, though foolishly, as ycu 
all say — 

“ Not foolishly,’’^ the young man said, pressing Lady Pen 
ton^s hand. He was very sorry for her wistful, tremulous 
looks, though his heart was bounding with satisfaction and 
elation in his own prospects. “Not foolishly, ^Mie half 
whispered, “ but soon to^ be over. I think I can promise 
you that — I feel sure I can promise you that. 

“God bless you said Walter’s mother, “'and reward 
you, for I can’t — oh, if you bring me back my boy, Mr. 
Eochford !” 

“ I will,” he cried, but still in a whisper. “ I will! and 
3 ^ou can rewwd me, dear Lady Penton.” He kissed her 
hand in his emotion, which is a salutation very unusual in 
mild English households, and brought a little thrill, a sen- 
sation of solemnity, and strangeness, and possibilities un- 
conceived, to her startled consciousness. Ally could not 
speak at all. She was half concealed in her mother’s 


A POOK GE]S’TLEMA2s^. 


335 


shadow, cliDging to her, still more full of strange sweet ex- 
citement and emotion. Her young eyelids seemed to weigh 
down her eyes. She could not look at him, but his words 
seemed to murmur in her ears and dwell there, returning 
over and over again, “ You can reward me.^^ Ally at 
least, now, if not before, knew bow. 

‘‘YouVe got a good horse there,^Vsaid Sir Edward, 
mechanically stroking the shining neck of the impatient 
animal, you^ll not be long on the road.^^ 

hTo, she goes well; to-morrow then, sir, early. 

“ As early as you please — you^ll have a cold drive. 
Thank you, Eochford.^^ He put out his hand to the young 
man with a hasty touch just as Eocliford took the reins, 
and then turned away and shut himself up in his book- 
room, while the others stood w^atching the dash of the 
mare, the sudden awakening of sound in the silence, the 

f limmer of the lamp as the cart flew along the drive. Sir 
Id ward retired to think it over by his dull afternoon fire, 
which was not made up till after tea. The night had 
fallen, but he did not immediately light his candles. He 
bent down over the dull red glow to think it over. 'His 
mind was relieved, there seemed now some possibility that 
this miserable anxiety might be over. But even though his 
object may be gained by other means, a man does not like 
to fail in his own person, and the chill of unsuccess was in 
his heart. Kochford, his man of business! well, princes 
themselves have to seek help from men of business. It 
was his trade to find out things. It was in the way of his 
profession that he should succeed. But then had not his 
ear caught something about a reward — a reward! what re- 
wa^:d? except his charges, of course. A new contrariety 
came into Sir Ed ward ^s mind, though he could not define 
it. He had not at all an agreeable half hour as he sat 
thinking it over in that dull moment before tea, over the 
dull book-room fire. 


CHAPTEE XLIL 

A NEW^ AGENT. 

Ally was up very early next morning. She was alw'ays 
early. In a house with so many little children and so few 
servants, if you were not up early you were in arrears with 


336 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


your work the whole day. That was her conviction always^ 
but on many occasions, especially on dark winter morn- 
ings, it did not carry the same practical force. This day 
she was more certain of the necessity than ever. She 
scolded Anne for not sharing it, but so softly that Anne 
fell asleep im the middle of ‘the little lecture. And Ally 
knew very well that nothing could be done, that no one 
could come so very early as this was. But still her mind 
was in great agitation, and it did her good to be up and 
about. About Walter? She had been very unhappy about 
Walter, full of distress and trouble, her heart beating at 
every sound, thinking of nothing else. But to-day she 
was, to say the least, a little more at ease about her broth- 
er. Last night they had all been more at their ease, so 
much so that Lady Penton had begun to talk a little about 
the removal, and the new furniture that would be required, 
and the many expenses and advantages, such as they were,^ 
of the new establishment. The expenses were what Lady 
Penton was most sensible of. For her own part, perhaps 
the advantages did not seem advantages to her. She was 
satisfied with the Hook. What did she want with Penton? 
But, at all events, she had been able to think of all this, 
to change the one persistent subject which had occupied her 
mind. And perhaps this was what had set Ally’s mind 
afloat. She was gM to be quite alone to think it all over, 
notwithstanding that Martha looked at her with no agreea- 
ble glances as she came into the dining-room before the 
fire was lighted. 

“I just overslep’ myself. Miss Alice,” said Martha. 

With helping to wash up down-stairs, and helping to get 
the nursery straight upstairs, a body has no time for 
sleep.” 

‘‘It does not matter at all, Martha,” said Ally with 
fervor, “ I only thought I should like to arrange the books 
a little. ■” 

“ Oh, if that’s all, miss,” Martha said, graciously ac- 
cepting the excuse. 

But eren Martha was a hinderance to Ally’s thoughts. 
She made herself very busy collecting the picture-books 
with which the children made up for the want of their 
usual walks on wet days, and which they were apt to leave 
about the dining-room, and rangitig them all in a row on 


A POOR CtEKTLEMAN. 


337 


the shelf while Martha concluded her work. But as soon 
as she was alone Aliyas arms dropped by her side and her 
activity ceased. She had put away her thoughts in 
Martha ^s presence, as she had done in Anne’s and in her 
mother’s, keeping them all for her own enjoyment; but 
now that she was alone she could take them out and look 
at them. After all, they were not thoughts at all, they 
were recollections, anticipations, they were a , sort of soft 
intoxication, delirium, a state too sweet to be real, yet 
which somehow was real — more real than the most com- 
monplace and prosaic things. To be alone, how delightful 
it was, even with the fire only half alight, and reluctant to 
begin the work of the day, and Martha’s duster still before 
her. She leaned her arms on the mantel-piece and bent 
her head down upon them and shut her eyes. She could 
see best when she shut her eyes. Had any one been there 
Ally could not thus have shut herself up in that magical 
world. Her hands were rather blue with cold, if truth 
must be told, but she was aware of nothing but an atmos- 
phere of warmth and softness, full of golden refiections 
and a haze of inarticulate happiness. She had forgotten 
all about that momentary movement of pride, of hesitation^ 
which she had afterward called by such hard names, but 
which at the moment had been real enough; that sensation 
of being Miss Penton of Penton, in the presence of Mrs. 
Kochford and her daughter. Both the sin and the repent- 
ance had faded out of Ally’s mind. She did not ask hei'- 
self anything about her suitor, whether he would satisfy her 
father, whether he would be thought of importance equal 
to the new claims of the family. Ally had gone beyond 
this stage, she remembered none of these things. The 
only external matters which affected her were the facts that 
for her sake he was going out into the world to bring back 
her brother, and that the whole horizon round her was the 
brighter for this enterprise. Naturally her thoughts gave 
it a far graver character than it possessed. It seemed some- 
thing like the work of a knight-errant, an effort of self- 
sacrifice beautiful and terrible. He was about to leave his 
home, to plunge into that seething world of London, of 
which she had heard so many appalling things, for her 
brother’s, nay, for her sake. She thought of him ^^s wan- 
dering through streets more miserable than any of the be- 
wildering dark forests of romance. In short, all the anguish 


338 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


of such a search as she had read of in heart-rending stories 
occurred to All3"^s mind. And all this he was doing for 
her. It gave her a pang of delightful suffering more sweet 
than enjoyment, that he should be so good, so brave, and 
that it should be all for her. 

Meantime young Eochford prepared, with a little trouble, 
it must be said, to absent himself from his business for a 
few days; he thought that certainly this time must be re- 
quired for a mission that might not be an easy one; for if 
he did not know, as he said, that such escapades were the 
commonest thing in the world among young men, he knew 
very well that to bring back a young culprit was not easily 
accomplished, and made up his mind that he would want 
both courage and patience for his task. As a matter of 
fact, he had no idea of Walters’s motive, or of the entan- 
glement^^ which had drawn him away. He was willing 
enough to beUeve in an entanglement, but not in one so 
innocent and blameless; and he believed that the j^outh had 
plunged into the abyss with the curiosity and passion of 
youth, to feel what was to be felt and to see what was to be 
seen, and to make a premature dash at that tree of the 
knowledge of evil which has so wonderful and bitter a charm. 
He was read}^ to take a great deal of trouble for the deliver- 
ance of the boy, though not without a little shake of his 
head at the thought of the other young Fentons who had 
also taken that plunge and whom it had not been possible 
to rescue. He had heard his father tell how many efforts 
Sir Walter had made to save his sons, and with how little 
effect. Did it perhaps run in the blood? But Eochford 
was fully determined to do his best, and confident, as be- 
came a fighter in that good cause, that whoever failed, he 
at least would succeed. And it was quite possible that he 
might have been willing to help these poor people (as he 
called them to himself) and save the unfortunate boy, if he 
had not loved Ally. He was generously sorry for them all, 
notwithstanding his consciousness of the enormous advan- 
tage likely to spring to himself from what he could do for 
them. He would have done it, he thought — if they had 
asked him, or even if it had come evidently in his way — for 
them; and certainly he would have done it for Aliyas 
brother, whosoever that brother might have been to recom- 
mend himself to the girl he loved. There could bo no 
doubt upon that subject. I'lie complication which nade it 


A POOK GENTLEJVIAN. 


839 


SO infinitely useful to him to make himself useful in this 
way, because the girl he loved was the eldest daughter of 
Sir Edward Penton, and more or less out of his sphere, 
was after all a secondary matter — and yet it could not be 
denied that it was very important too. He said to himself 
that he would have chosen Ally from the world had she 
been a poor curators daughter, a ppor governess, a nobody. 
But at the same time he could hot but be aware that to 
inarry Miss Pen ton was a great thing for him, and worth a 
great deal of trouble to bring about. Perhaps a many’s 
feelings in the matter of his love are never so unalloyed 
as a girl’s, to whom the love itself is everything, and 
with whom the circumstances tell for nothing. Or perhaps 
this depends upon the circumstances themselves, since a 
girl too has many calculations to make and much to take 
into consideration when she is called upon to advance her- 
self and her family by a fortunate marriage. Eochford 
could not help feeling that such a connection would be a 
fine thing: but it was not for the connection that Ally was 
dear to him. He thought of her in his way ^itli subdued 
rapture really stronger and more passionate, though not so 
engrossing, as her own, as he dashed along the river-side, 
his mare almost fiying, his heart going faster, beating with 
the hope of a meeting with Ally before he should see her 
father — before he set off upon his mission. If Ally loved 
him she would find the means, he thought, to give him that 
recompense for his devotion; and sure enough, as he came 
in sight of the gate, he became aware also of a little slim 
figure gathering the first snow-drops in the shadow of the 
big laurel bushes that screened the little drive. He fiung 
the reins to his groom and leaped out of the cart, at immi- 
nent risk of startling the other nervous, highly organized 
animal, who had carried him along so swiftly; but what 
did he care for that or any other risk? In a moment, shut- 
ting the gate behind him gingerly, notwithstanding his 
headlong haste, that nobody might be aware of his arrival, 
he was by Ally’s side. 

‘‘ You are gathering flowers. Miss Penton, already!” 

Oh, Mr. Eochford, is it you? Yes; they are earlier 
here than anywhere. They are only snow-drops, after all. 

She looked not unlike a snow-drop herself, with a white 
wrapper wound round her throat, and her head, which 
drooped a little — but not till after she had recognized him 


340 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


with a rapid glance and an overwhelming momentary blush 
which left her pale. 

I could think there would be always flowers wherever 
you trod/^ he said. 

That^s poetry/^ she replied, with a little tremulous 
laugh, in which there was excitement and a little nervous 
shivering from the cold. It must have been you I heard 
galloping along, she added, hurriedly, ^Mike the wind. 
Are you in haste for the train:^^ 

I was in haste, hoping for a word with you before I 
started. 

My father is expecting you, Mr. Eochford.'’^ 

Yes; I did not mean your father. Won^t you say a 
kind word to me before I gor^^ 

Oh, if I could only thank you as I should like! Mr. 
Eochford, I do with my whole heart. ^ ^ 

It is not thanks I want,^^ he said. Ally — don^t be 

ait *ry ^vith me — if I come back — with — your brother. 

Oh, Mr. Eochford, we will all — I don^t know what to 
say — bless you!^^ 

I don^t want blessing; nor is it the others I am think- 
ing of. Ally, are you angry 

He had taken in his own her cold hands, with the snow- 
drops in them, and was bending over them. Ally trembled 
so that she let her flowers fall, but neither of them paid 
any attention. He did not say he loved her, or anything 
of that kind, which perhaps the girl exi^ected; but he said. 
Ally, are you angry once more. 

Oh, no,^^ she said, in a voice that was no more than a 
whisper: and then the sound of a step upon the gravel 
made them start asunder. 

It was Sir Edward, who had heard the dog-cart coming 
aloiig the curve by the river, and who, restless in his anx- 
iety, had come forth to see who it was. Both Eochford and 
Aliy stooped down after that little start of separation to 
pick up the fallen flowers, and then once more their hands 
touched, and the same whisper, so meaningless yet so full 
of meaning, was exchanged — If you are not angry, give 
them to me, Ally!^^ 

Angry? no; why should she be angry? She gave him 
the snow-drops out of her hand, and while he ran up to 
meet her father was thankful to have the chance of stoop- 
ing to gather up the rest. It was not so much, after all. 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


341 


that he had said; nothing but her name — Ally^ — and Are 
you angry?’ ^ At what should she be angry? — because he 
had called her by her name? It had never sounded so 
sweetly, so soft, in her ears before. 

Yes, I am on my way to the station. I came to see if 
you had any instructions for me; if there was any — news, 
before I go.” 

‘‘I don’t see how there could be any news, ” said Sir 
Edward, who had relapsed into something of his old irrita- 
tion. I didn’t expect any news. If he did not write at 
first, do you think it likely he would write now?” 

He might do so any day; every day makes it more like- 
ly that he should do so,” said Eochford, in my opinion.” 

Ah, you think more favorably than I do,” said the fa- 
ther, shaking his head, but he was mollified by the words. 
He went on shaking his head. As long as he can get on 
there I don’t expect him to write. I don’t expect him.io 
come back. I don’t think you’ll find him ever so easi.^ ^ 
you suppose. But still, you can try; I have no objection 
that you should try.” 

‘ ^ Then there is nothing more to say beyond what we 
settled last night?” 

Nothing that I can think of. His mother, of course, 
M^ould have mes^ges to send; she would wish you to tell 
him that she was anxious, and feared his falling ill, and all 
that; but I don’t pretend to be unhappy about his health 
or — anything of that sort,” said Sir Edward, hoarsely, 
with a wave of his hand. ‘‘ You can tell him from me 
that he’d better come home at once; we’ll be removing 
presently. He had best be here when we take possession of 
Penton; he had best — be here — But you know very well 
what to say — that is, if you find him,” he added, with a 
harsh little laugh, “ which you won’t find so easy as you 
think.” 

“ I don’t suppose it will be easy,” said Eochford; “ but 
if it can be done I’ll do it. I’ll stay till I’ve done it. I 
shall not return without some news.” 

“ Ah, well; go, go. You are full of confidence, you 
young men. You think you’ve but to say ‘ come,’ and he 
will come. You’ll know better when you are as old — as 
old as I am. Good-bye, then, if you are going. You’ll — 
look in as you come back?” 


342 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


I shall come here direct, sir: and telegraph as soon as 
I have anything to say. 

^‘Good-bye, then/^ said Sir Edward, stretching out his 
hand. He held Bochford for a moment, shaking his hand 
in a tremulous way. Then he said, ‘^It must be incon- 
venient, leaving all your business, going away on this wild- 
goose chase. 

If it were ever so inconvenient 1 shouldnH mind.^^ 

He kept swinging the young rnan^s hand, with a pressure 
which seemed every moment as though he would throw it 
away; then he murmured in his throat, ‘‘ God bless you,, 
then!^^ and dropped it, and turned back toward the house. 

Bochford was left standing once more by the side of Ally^ 
with her hands full of snow-drops, who had followed every 
word of this little colloquy with rapt attention. The 
flowers she had given him were carefully inclosed in his 
kft hand; they were a secret between his love and him. 
He did not unfold them even for her to see. ‘‘ Walk with 
me to the gate,^^ he said, in a voice which was half entreaty 
and half command. He held out his arm to her, and she 
took it. The little authority, the air of appropriation, was 
sweet to her as she thought no flattery could have been. 

He will be against me,"'^ said Bochford, holding her 
hand close, bending over her in the shade of the laurels. 

And I don’t wonder. But if I come back successful per- 
haps they will think me worthy of a reward. Ally, dar- 
ling, you thank me for going, when it is all mercenary, for 
my own interest — ’ ’ 

Oh, no, no — no.” 

It is— to win you. I am not good enough for you, I 
know that, but I can not give up this dear hope. AVill 
you stand by me if they refuse?” 

She made no reply. How could she make any reply? 
She held his arm tight, and drooped her head. She had 
never stood against them in her life. She was aghast at 
the thought. Everything in life had been plain to her till 
now. But her eyes were dazzled with the sudden new light, 
and the possibility of darkness coming after it. The con- 
fusion of betrothal, refusal, delight, dismay, all coming to- 
gether, bewildered her inexperienced soul. ‘‘No, no, no,” 
she murmured; “ oh, no; they will never be against us.” 

“No,” he cried, in subdued tones of triumph; “not 


A POOR GEKTLEMAN. 34o 

against us, if you will stand by me. Ally! then it is you 
and I against the world 

And then there w^as the glitter and glimmer before her 
eyes, the impatient mare tossing her nervous head, the 
wintery sun gleaming in the harness, in the horse ^s sleek 
coat, in the varnish of the dog-cart: and then the sudden 
rush of sound, and all was gone like a dream. Like a 
dream — like a sudden phantasmagoria, in which she too 
had been a vision like the rest, and lieard and saw and done 
and said things inconceivable. To turn back after that on 
everything that was so familiar and calm, to remember 
that she must go and put into water the snow-drops, which 
were already dropping limp in the hand that he had kissed 
— that she must face them all in the preoccupation of her 
thoughts— was almost as wonderful to Ally as this wonder- 
ful moment that was past. ‘^You and I against the 
world. And those other shorter words that meant so little 
apparently, Ally — you are not angry kept murmuring 
and floating about her, making an atmosphere round her. 
Would the others hear her when she went in? That fear 
seized upon Ally as she drew near the door, coming slowly, 
slowly along the path. They would hear the words, Ally, 
are you angry ?^^ but would they know what that meant? 
she said to herself in her dream as she reached the door. 
No, no; they might hear them, but they would not under- 
stand — that was her secret between her love and her. To 
think that in such little words, that look so innocent, 
everything could be said ! 

But nobody took any notice of Ally when she went in at 
last. They were all occupied with their own affairs, and 
with the one overpowering sentiment which made them in- 
sensible to other things. Ally went into the midst of them 
with her secret in her eyes like a lamp in a sanctuary, but 
they never perceived it. She put her snow-drops in water, 
all but two or three which she took to her room with her, 
feeling them too sacred even to be worn, even to be left for 
Anne to see. But where could she put them to keep them 
secret? She had no secret places to keep anything in, nor 
had she ever known what it was to have a secret in all her 
innocent life. How, oh, how was she to keep this? 


344 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 
ally’s secret. 

As a matter of fact she did not keep it at all. 

The others were very anxious, lost in their thoughts, 
their minds all quiyering with anxiety and hope and fear, 
but still there were moments when the tension relaxed a 
little. It was very highly strung at first while the excite- 
ment of Eochford’s departure and of Sir Edward’s en- 
counter with him was still in the air, but by degrees this 
died away, and a sense of increased serenity, of greater 
hope, released their souls from that bondage. Lady Pen- 
ton after a long silence began again to talk a little about 
the new house. 

I don’t know what we can do with these poor old 
things in Pen ton,” she said; such a beautiful house as 
it is, everybody says, and so many pretty things in it: and 
all we have is so shabby. Ally, you are the only one that 
has seen it. ” 

Yes, mother,” said Ally, waking up as from a dream. 

What do you think, my dear? you ought to be able to- 
tell me. I suppose there is scarcely a room in the house so 
small as this?” 

I— don’t think I paid any attention.” 

No attention! — to a house which was to be our own 
house.” 

But no one thought then it was to be our own house,” 
cried Anne, coming to the rescue. And you know Allj^ 
did not enjoy it, mother.” 

Oh, yes,” cried Ally, suddenly waking up, feeling once 
more the brightness of pleasure that had come with the 
sight of him ; how he had found her neglected and made 
a princess of her, a little queen! Was it possible that she 
could ever have forgotten that? 

‘‘Well, not at first,” said Anne; “you didn’t like 
Cousin Alicia, which I don’t wonder at. Mab didn’t like 
her either. Mother, if Mab comes back and insists on 
coming to live with us, what shall you do?” 

“I wish 3^ou would not be so nonsensical,” said Lady 
Penton, with a little vexation, when I was talking of the 


345 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 

furniture. Why should Mab—'' she paused a moment, 
struck by a recollection, and then wound up with a sigh 
and a shake of her head. Why should not Walter have 
a try?^^ The words came back to her mind vaguely, just 
clear enough to arouse a keener consciousness of the pre- 
vailing subject which her mind had put aside for the mo- 
ment. Ah! poor Wat! poor Wat! how could his mother 
think or speak of anything while his fate hung in the bal- 
ance? But then she reflected on the new agent who had 
been sent out into the world in search of him, a young man 
who knew the M^ays of young men. This .reflection ^ave 
her more comfort than anything. She clung to the idea 
that young men spoke a ^language of their own among 
themselves, and that only they understood each other^s 
wav. She resumed with another sigh. 

I donT suppose we have anything in our possession 
that is fit to be put into the drawing-room> Ally. I re- 
member it in old days, the very few times lever was there: 
but they say it is far more splendid now than it was be- 
fore. Do you think that chiffonier would do?^^ The 
chiffonier had been the pride of Lady Penton^s heart. It 
was inlaid, and had a plate-glass back. She looked at it 
fondly where it stood, not very brilliant in fact, but making 
the shabby things around look a little more shabby. She 
had always felt it was thrown away amid these surround- 
ings, and that to see it in a higher and better sphere would 
be sweet and consolatory; but Lady Penton was aware that 
taste had changed greatly since that article was construct- 
ed, and that perhaps the decorations of the great drawing- 
room at Penton might be out of harmony with a meiihle 
belonging to another generation, how^ever beautiful it might 
be in itself. 

I — don^t know,^^ said Ally, looking at the well-known 
article with her dreamy eyes; there w^as nothing like it — 
I think: I didnT notice— 

You donT seem to have noticed anything, my dear,^^ 
her mother said. 

Oh, if Ally could but say what it was that had been most 
delightful to her at Penton! But then she remembered 
with overpowering shame how she had shrunk from the 
ladies who had been so good to her; how she had felt the 
elation of her new superiority; how she had been a snob in 
all the horror of the w^ord. And she was silent, crushed by 


346 


A POOR GENTLEMAK. 


remorse and confusion. Fortunately Lady Penton^s mind 
was taken up by other things. 

“ I think/^ she said, the chiffonier will do. It is large^ 
too large, for this little room; it will fill one side of the 
wall very nicely. And perhaps some of the chairs, if they 
are newly covered; but as for curtains and carpets and all 
that, everything must be new. It is dreadful to think of 
the expense. I don^t know how we are ever to meet it 
Ally, what sort of carpets are there now? Oh, no doubt 
beautiful Persian rugs and that sort of thing — simple Brus- 
sels would not do. Is it a polished floor with rugs, or is it 
one of those great carpets woven in one piece, or is it — 
My dear, what^s the matter? There is no need to cry.^^ 

I — doiiT remember — it is so stupid of me,^^ said Ally, 
with the tears in her eyes. 

You are nervous and upset this morning; but we must 
all try and take a little courage. I have great confidence 
in Mr. Rochford — oh, great confidence! He is very kind 
and so trustworthy. You can see that only to look into 
those nice kind eyes. 

Oh, mother dear!’^ cried Ally, flinging her arms about 
Lady Penton^s neck, giving her a sudden kiss. And then 
the girl slid away, flying upstairs as soon as she was safely 
out of sight, to cry with happiness in her own room where 
nobody could see. 

There is something the matter with Ally this morn- 
ing, said her mother; “ she is not like herself. 

She is not at all like herself,^ ^ said Anne, with a little 
pursing up of her lips, as one who should say, I could an 
I would. 

What do you think it is, Anne? Do you know of any-, 
thing? 

I doiiT know,^^ said Anne, but I guess. Mother — I 
think it’s Mr. Rochford.” 

Mr. Rochford!” Lady Penton replied; and then in a 
moment the whole passed before her like a panorama. 
How could she have been so dull? It had occurred to her 
as possible before old Sir Walter’s death, and she had not 
been displeased. Now things were different; but still — 
What will your father say?” she exclaimed. ‘‘ Oh, I am 
afraid I have been neglecting Ally thinking of her brother.. 
What will your father say?” 


A POOR GEKTLEMAlSr. 


347 


If that sort of thing is going to said Anne, sen- 
tentiously, do you think anything can stop it, mother!* I 
have always heard that the more you interfere the stronger 
it becomes. It has to be if it^s going to be.^^ 

Lady Pen ton did not make any reply to this wisdom, 
but she was greatly moved. First Walter and then Ally! 
The children becoihe independent actors in life, choosing 
their own parts for good, or, alas! perhaps for evil. She 
stole upstairs after a little interval and softly opened the 
door of Aliyas room, where the girl was sitting half crying, 
smiling, lost in the haze of novelty and happiness: her 
mother looked at her for a moment before she said any- 
thing to make her presence known. x\h, yes, it was very 
clear Ally had escaped, she had gone away from the house- 
hold in which she was born, the cares and concerns of 
which had hitherto been all the world to her, into another 
sphere, a different place, a little universe of her own, peo- 
pled but by the two, the beginners of a new world. Lady 
Penton sto^od unseen, contemplating the giiTs dreamy coun- 
tenance, Sti abstracted from all about her with a complica- 
tion of new and strange emotions. Her little girl! but now 
separate, having taken the turn that made her life a thing 
apart from father and mother. The child! who had in a 
moment become a woman, an individual with her fate and 
future all her own. The interest of it, the pride of it, in 
some respects the pity of it, touches every maturer soul at 
such a sight — but when it is a woman looking at her own 
little girl! She came into the room very softly and sat 
down beside Ally upon the little white bed and put her ten- 
der arms about the young creature in her trance; and Ally, 
with one low cry, Mother!^^ flung herself upon the breast 
which had always been her shelter. And there was an end 
of the secret — so far as such a secret can be told. The 
mother did not want any telling, she understood it all. 
But, notwithstanding her sympathy for her child, and her 
agreement in Anne^s inspiration and conviction that such 
a thing has to be if it is going to be, she kept reflecting to 
herself, What will her father say?^^ all the time in her 
heart. 

This was destined to be a day of excitement in many 
ways. Just before the family meal (which Lady Penton, 
with a sense of all the changes now surging upward in their 
family life, had begun to speak of with a little timidity as 


348 


A POOR GENTLEMAi^. 


the children's dinner ^’) one of the Penton carriages came 
to the door, and Mab burst in, all smiles and delight. 

Am I in time for dinner?’^ she said. Oh, Lady Pen- 
ton, you will let me come to dinner? May I send the car- 
riage away and tell them to come back for me? When 
must they come back for me? Oh, if you only knew how 
I should like to stay.'’'' It was very difficult for these kind 
people to resist the fervor of this petition. My dear, of 
course we are very glad to have you,^’’ Lady Penton said, 
with a little hesitation. And Mab plunged into the midst 
of the children with cries of delight on both sides. Horry 
possessed himself at once of her hand, and found her 
a chair close to his own, and even little Molly waved 
her spoon in the stranger^ s honor, and changed her 
little song to ‘‘ Mady, Mady,^^ instead of the "^Pader, 
fader which was the sweetest of dinner-bells to Sir 
Edward^s ears. When dinner was over, Mab got Lady 
Penton into a corner and poured forth her petition. Oh^ 
may I come and stay! tJncle Russell is going, away, and 
Aunt Alicia is not at all fond of me. She wodld not like 
it if I went with them, and where can I go? My relations 
are none of them so nice as you. You took me in out of 
kindness when I didn’t know where to go. I have a lot of 
money. Lady Pentoii, they say, but I am a poor little 
orphan girl all the same.” 

‘^Oh, my dear,” said Lady Penton, ‘‘nobody could be 
more sorry than I am; and a lot of money does not do very 
much good to a little girl who is alone. But, Mab, I have 
so many to think of: and we have not a lot of money, and 
we have to live accordingly. Though Sir Edward has Pen- 
ton now, that does not make things better, it rather makes 
them worse. Even in Penton we shall live very simply, 
perhaps poorly. We can not give you society and pleasures 
like your other friends.” 

“But I don’t want society and pleasure. Pleasure! I 
should like to take care of Molly, and make her things and 
teach her her letters. I should; she is the dearest little 
darling that ever was. I should like to run about with the 
boys. Horry and I are great friends, oh, great friends. 
Lady Penton. At Penton you will have hundreds of 
rooms; you can’t say it is not 'big enough. Oh, let me 
come! Oh, let me come! And then my money — ” But 
here Mab judiciously stopped, seeing no room for any con- 


A PODK GENTLEMAJS^. 


349 


‘sideration about her money. ‘^You woulcln^t turn me 
from the door if I was a beggar, a little orphan/^ she cried. 

Oh, my dear! No, indeed, I hope not; but this is very 
different. Mab, though I am not much set upon money 
(but I am afraid I am too, for nothing will go without it)^ 
yet a rich girl is very different from a poor girl. You know 
that as well as 

The poor girl is much better off,^^ cried Mab, for 
people are kind to her; they take her in, they let her stay, 
they are alwaye contriving to make her feel at home; but 
the wretched little rich one is put to the door. People say, 
^ Oh, we are always glad to see you;’ but they are not. 
Lady Penton! They think, here she comes with her 
mone3^ As if I cared about my money! Take me for 
Molly’s nurse or her governess. Ally will be going and 
marrying — ” 

What do you know about that?” Lady Penton said, 
grasping her arm. 

‘‘I! I don’t know anything about it; but of course she 
will, and so will Anne; and it might happen that you would 
be glad to have me, just to look after the children a little 
after the weddings were over, and help you with Molly. 
Oh, you might. Lady Penton, it is quite possible; and then 
you would find out that I am not a little good-for-nothing. 
I believe I am really clever with children,” Mab cried, 
flinging herself down on her knees, putting her arms about 
Lady Penton’s waist. Oh, say that I may stay.” 

When she had thus flung herself upon Lady Penton^s 
lap, Mab suddenly raised her round rosy cheek to the pale 
one that bent over her. They were by themselves in a cor- 
ner of the drawing-room, and nobody was near. She said 
in a whisper, close to the other’s ear, I saw Mr. Penton 
in town yesterday. He was looking quite well, but sad. I 
was — oh, very impertinent. Lady Penton. Forgive me. I 
stopped the carriage, though I am sure he did not want to 
speak to me. I told him that you were not — quite well — 
that you were so pale — and that everybody missed him so. 
Don’t be angry! I was very impertinent. Lady Pentoin 
And he said he was going home directly — directly, that 
was what he said. I said you would be sure not to tell him 
in your letters that you were feeling ill, but that you were. 
And so you are. Lady Penton; you are so pale. But he is 
coming directly, that was what he said. ” 


350 


A POOR GENTLEMAK. 


Oh, my little Mab!'^ Lady Petitoii cried. She gave 
the little girl a sudden kiss, then put her hands with a soft 
resoluteness upon Mab^s arms and loosed their clasp. It 
was as if the girl had pushed open for a moment a door 
which closed upon her again the next. Yes,^^ she said, 
my son is coming home. He has stayed a little longer 
than we expected, but you should not have tried to frighten 
him about his mother. I am not ill. If he comes rushing 
back before his business is done, because you have fright- 
ened him about me, what shall we do to you, you little 
prophet of evilr^^ She stooped again and kissed "the girl, 
giving her a smile as well. But then she rose from her 
seat. As soon as we get in to Penton you must come and 
pay us a long visit,^^ she said. 

And this made an end of Mab^s attempt to interfere in 
the affairs of the family of which she was so anxious to be- 
come a member. She went away to the children with her 
head hanging, and in a somewhat disconsolate condition. 
But, being seized upon by Horry, who had a great manu- 
facture of boats on hand, and wanted some one to make the 
sails for him, soon forgot, or seemed to forget, the trouble, 
and became herself again. I am coming to live with you 
when you go to Penton,^ ^ she said. 

Hurrah! Mab is coming to live with usT^ shouted^Ahe 
little boys, and soon this great piece of news ran ov^g "cne 
house. ' - I 

Mad^s tumming! Mad's tuinming!^^ little Molly joined 
in with her little song. 

And this new proposal, which was so strange and unlike- 
ly, and which the elder members looked upon so dubiously, 
was carried by acclamation by the little crowd, so to speak, 
of the irresponsible populace — the children of the house. 

The day had been an exhausting day. When the winter 
afternoon fell there was throughout the house more than 
usual of that depressed and despondent feeling which is 
natural to the hour and the season. Even Mab^s going 
contributed to this sensation. The hopef idness of the morn- 
ing, when all had felt that the sending out of the new agent 
meant deliverance from their anxiety, had by this time 
begun to sink into the dreary waiting to which no definite 
period is put, and which may go on, so far as any one 
knows, day after day. Sir Edward had withdrawn to the 
book-room, very sick at heart and profoundly disappointed, 


A POOE GENTLEMAN. 


351 


I disgusted even not to have had a telegram^ which he had 
expected from hour to hour the entire day. Eochford had 
not found Walter, then, though he was so confident in his 
superior knowledge. After all, he had sped no better than 
other people. There was a certain solace in this, but yet a 
dreary, dreadful disappointment. He sat over his fire,, 
crouching over it with his knees up to his chin, cold with 
the chill of nervous disquietude and anxiety, listening, as 
the ladies had done so long — listening for the click of the 
gate, for a step on the gravel — for anything that might de- 
note the coming of news, the news which he had never been 
able to bring himself, but which Eochford had been so sure 
of sending, only, as it seemed, to fail. 

Lady Pen ton was in the drawing-room. She spent this 
dull hour often with her husband, but to-day she did not go 
to him. She could not have been with him and keep Aliyas 
secret, and she was loath to give him the additional irrita- 
tion of this new fact in the midst of the trouble of the old. 
She said to herself that if Eochford succeeded in his search, 
if he sent news, if he brought Walter home, that then 
everything would be changed; and in gratitude for such a 
service his suit might be received. She did not wish to ex- 
t pos6j,that suit to an angry objection now. Poor lady! she 

i harl n Are motives than one for this reticence. She would 
not make Ally unhappy, and she would not permit any- 
thing to be said or done that might lessen the energy of the 
lover who felt his happiness to depend on his success. It 
was because of her habit of spending this hour between the 
lights in the book-room with her husband that she was left 
alone in the partial dark, before the lamp was brought or 
the curtains drawn. She had gone close to the window when 
it was too dark to work at the table, but now her work had 
dropped on her lap, and she. was doing nothing. Doing 
nothing! witli so much to think of, so many, many things 
to take into consideration. She sat and looked out on the 
darkening skies, the pale fading of the light, the dull white- 
ness of the horizon, and the blackness of the trees that rose 
against iL The afternoon chill was strong upon her heart; 
she had been disappointed too — she too had been looking 
for that telegram, and her heart had sunk lower and lower 
as the night came on. That Walter should be found was 
what her heart prayed and longed for, and now there was 
another reason, for Aliyas sake, that the lover might claim 


252 A POOK GENTLEMA^S^ 

his reward. Bat the day was nearly over, and, so far as 
could be told, the lover, with all his young energy, was as 
iinsaccessf ul as Edward himself. So far as this went, their 
thoughts were identical, but Lady Penton^s, if less sad, 
were more complicated, and took in a closer net-work of 
wishes and hopes. She sat at the window and looked out 
blankly, now and then putting up her hand to dry her 
eyes. She could cry quietly to herself in the dark, which 
is a relief a man can not have. 

What a sad house! with heavy anxiety settling down 
again, and the shadow of the night, in which even the de- 
liverer can not work, nor telegrams come. There was a 
spark of warmer life upstairs, where the girls had lighted 
their candle, and where the tremendous secret which had 
come to Ally was being shyly contemplated by both girls 
together in wonder of so great and new a thing. And on 
the nursery there was plenty of cheerfulness and din. But 
down-stairs all was very quiet, the father and mother in 
different rooms thinking the same thoughts. Lady Pen- 
ton wept out those few tears very quietly. There was no 
sound to betray them. It had grown very dark in the 
room and her eyes were fixed on the wan light that lingered 
outside.. She had no hope now for a telegram. He would 
not send one so late. He must have written instead of 
telegraphing. He had found nothing, that was clear. 

She had said tliis to herself for the hundredth time, and 
had added for perhaps the fiftieth that it was time to go 
and dress, that it was of no use lingering, looking for some- 
thing that never came, that she had now a double reason to 
be calm, to have i^atience, to take courage, when it seemed 
to her that something, a dark speck, flitted across the pale 
light outside. This set her heart beating again. Could it 
be the dispatch after all? She listened, her heart jumping 
up into her ears. Oh! who was it? Ko thing? Was it 
nothing? There was no sound. Yes, a hurried rustle, a 
faint stir in the hall. She rose up. Telegraph boys make 
a great noise, they send the gravel flying, they beat wild 
drums ujdoii the door. N^ow there was nothing, or only a 
something fluttering across the window, the faintest stir at 
the open door. 

What was it? a hand uj^on the handle turning it doubt- 
fully, slowly; then it was pushed open. Oh, no; no tele- 
graph boy. She flew forward with her whole heart in her 


A POOR GEJs’TLEMAX. 


35B 


outstretched hands. Some one stood in the dark, looking 
in, saying nothing, only half visible, a shadow, no more. 
Wail WatV^ the mother cried. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THEFI^TAL BLOW. 

What does it matter what a mother says? especially 
when she is a powdered and pomaded woman like Mrs. Sam 
Crockford, altogether unable to comprehend, much less 
interpret, the fair and brilliant creature who is her daugh- 
ter. How strange that anything so sweet and delightful as 
Emmy should come from such a woman — one from whom 
the heart recoiled, who was offensive to every sense, with 
those white, unwholesome, greasy hands, the powder, the' 
scent, the masses of false hair, the still falser and more 
dreadful smile. Walter said to himself as he left her witli 
that nausea which always overwhelmed him at the sight of 
her, that he would not take what she said as having any- 
thing to do with Emmy. 'No; her existence was a sort of 
an offense to Emmy; it might, if that were possible, throw 
a cloud over her perfection, it might make a superficial ad- 
mirer pause to think, could she ever in her young beauty 
come to be like that? A superficial admirer, Walter said 
to himself — not, of course, a true lover such as he was, to 
whom the suggestion was odious and abominable. Like 
that! oh, never, never! for Emmy had soul, she had heart 
in her loveliness; never could the actress have resembled 
her, never could she resemble the actress. He wondered if 
that woman could be her mother. Such people stole cliil- 
dren, they got hold of them in strange ways. Emmy 
might have been taken in her childhood from some poor 
mother of a very different kind. She might have strayed 
away from her home and been found by vagrants: anything 
rather than believe that she was that woman ^s daughter, 
who, to crown all her artificialities, was mercenary too. Or 
even if it might really be so, what did it matter? is there 
not often no resemblance between the mother and the child, 
the mother elderly, faded, meretricious, trying hard to keep 
up an antiquated display of dreadful charms, seductions 
that filled the mind with loathing; the daughter, oh, so 
different, so young and fresh, so full of youth and sweet- 

6— 2d half. 


354 


A POOE GEKTLEMAIT. 


ness and everything that is delightful, everything that is 
most fascinating. When he thought of Emmy the young 
man^s heart, which had been so outraged, grew soft again. 
If it came to a decision, how very different would Emniy^s 
deliverance be. Yet Emmy had discouraged him too, she 
had thought of secondary things. She had been sorry that 
he should lose anything for her sake, he who was so ready 
to lose all. She had even scoffed a little sweetly at his fort- 
une, the ten thousand pounds, which would not, she de- 
clared, be more than four hundred a year. Four hundred 
a year would be plenty, Walter thought; they could live 
somewhere quietly in the depths of the country enjoying 
each other^s society, desiring nothing else to make them 
happy. Would Emmy care for that? she who so loved 
London. A number of people loved London so, did not 
\now what to do out of it, people who were the very best, 
the most highly endowed of all, poets, philosophers — it was 
no reproach to her that she should be among that number. 
He was not one of them himself, but then he was, he knew, 
a dull fellow, a rustic. Poor Walter went about the streets 
all day thinking these thoughts. He knew he was not so 
clever as she was; but yet they had always understood each 
other: not like that dreadful woman whom nothing could 
make him understand. He would not accept her decision 
whatever she said^ — he would not believe her even — proba- 
bly what she had said about his father was untrue; how 
should his father have got there? No, no, it was not true, 
any more than it was true that Emmy had permitted her 
mother to interfere. There was some one else whom the 
old woman preferred, he said, miserably, to himself, and 
that was the entire cause of it, not that Emmy meant to 
cast him off — oh no, no! 

But it was two or three days after this before he succeed- 
ed in seeing her. Either there was a conspiracy on her 
mother^s part, into which she, guileless, fell, or else the 
mother had acquired an ascendency over her, and was able 
to curb the natural instincts, to restrain the sweeter im- 
pulses of her daughter. That it could be Emmy^s fault he 
would not allow. He haunted the place morning and even- 
ing, and on Saturday afternoon, which had been his mo- 
ment of bliss. It was on that day that he met her at last. 
He met her hurrying out, dressed as she usually was when 
he was allowed to take her to the country or to make some 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


355 


expedition with her. She had just stopped to call out 
something before closing the door, about the hour of her 
return — he thought he heard her say nine o^clock, and it 
was little past noon. She was going somewhere, then, but 
not with him. He turned after her as she went lightly 
along*, with the easy skimming step which he had so often 
compared to every poetic movement under heaven. It 
filled him with despair to see it now, and to feel that she 
was going along like this, upon some other expedition, not 
in his company, though sh6 must know to what darkness of 
despondence and solitude she was leaving him. Emmy,^^ 
he cried, hurrying after her. He thought she started a 
little, but only quickened her pace. She was not, however, 
to escape liim so — that was a vain expectation on her 2 :)art. 
He quickened his pace too, and came up to her, close to 
her, and caught at her elbow in his eagerness and impa- 
tience. She turned round upon him with a face very unlike 
that which had so often smiled upon the foolish boy. She 
plucked her arm away from his touch. Oh,^^ she said, 
with a tone of annoyance, you here!^^ 

Where should I be, Emmy, but where you are? You 
were going to send for me, to meet me — 

She looked at him with impatience. Ho,^^ she said, 
I wasn^t going to do anything of the kind; I have got 
something very different to do.^^ 

I have always been ready to do whatever you wanted,^ ^ 
he said, to go where you pleased, and you know this has 
been my reward — this Saturday afternoon, after waiting, 
waiting, day by day — 

‘‘Who wanted you to wait? Mr. Penton, that was your 
doing. You must understand that Pm not going to be 
made a slave to you.^^ 

“ A slave,^^ cried the poor boy, “ to me!^^ 

“ Well, what is it better? I can^t move a step but you 
are at my heels. Wha^ IWe always held by is doing what 
I like and going where I like. I never could put up with 
bondage and propriety like some people; but you dog my 
steps, you watch everything I do — 

‘‘ Emmy 

“ Well, is that all you have to say? Emmy! yes, that^s 
my name; but you can^t crush me by saying ‘ Emmy!^ to 
she said, with a little breathless gasp, as of one who 
had seized the opportunity to work herself up into a fit of 


356 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


calculated impatience. She stopjDed here, perhaps moved by 
his pale face, and ended by a little laugh of ridicule. 

Well, that^s natural enough, don’t you think?” 

I don’t know what is natural,” he said. 1 have 
thrown off all that. Emmy, are you going to abandon me 
after all?” 

“ After all! — after what? I suppose you mean after all 
the great things you’ve done for me? What has it been, 
Mr. Penton? You’ve followed me here, you’ve watched 
me that I couldn’t take a step, or speak a word. No, I am 
not going with you any more. You must just make up 
your mind to it, Mr. Walter Penton. I’ve got other 
things in hand. I’ve other — I’ve — well, let us be vulgar,” 
she cried, with a wild little laugh, I’ve got other fish to 
fry. ” 

The poor young fellow kept his eyes fixed upon her — 
eyes large with dismay and trouble. 

You are not going with me anymore! You can’t mean 
it! — you don’t mean it, Emmy!” 

‘‘ But I do. It’s been all nonsense and romance and 
folly. I didn’t mind just for amusement. But do you 
think I am going to let you, with next to nothing, and ex- 
pectations — expectations! what could your expectations be: 
— your father may live for a century! Do you think I’m 
going to let you stand in my way, and keep me from 
what’s better? No — and no again and again. I mean 
nothing of the sort. I mean what’s best for myself. I am 
not going with you any more.” 

“ Not going with me!” he said, in a voice of misery: 

then what is to become of me? — what am I to dor” 

‘‘ Oh, you’ll do a hundred things,” she said, tapping him 
on the arm; ‘‘go home, for one thing, and make your 
peace. It’s far better for you. It’s been folly for you as 
well as me. Go and take care of your ten thousand pounds, 
Ten thousand pounds! What do yc^u think of as much as 
that a year? Take care of it, and you’ll get a nice little 
income out of it, just enough for a young man about town. 
And don’t be tyrannized over by your people, and don’t let 
any one say a word about marrying. You’re too youn^ to 
be married. I’m your only real friend, AV alter. Yes, 
I am. I tell you, don’t think of marrying — why should 
you marry? — but just have your fling and get a little fun 
while you can. That’s my last advice to you. ” 


A POOR r4RNTLE>IA]S[. 


3:57 


He walked on with her mechanically, not able to speak, 
tmtil she got impatient of the silent figure stalking by her 
side, struck dumb with youthful passion and misery. 

She stopped suddenly and confronted him with hasty 
determination. Youh’e not/^ she said, coming another 
step with me!^^ 

Where am I to go? what am I to do: I have lived/’ 
he cried, only for you!^^ 

Then it^s time to stop that! she said. Go away— 
go clean away; it will — it will damage me if youh’e seen 
with me! Now there, that’s the truth! I was so silly as 
to allow it for your sake before, now I’ve learned better. 
Mr. Penton, it will be harming me if you come another 
step. Now, do you understand?” 

Did he understand? He stopped, and gazed at her with 
his blank face. It will be harming you! But you belong 
to me, you are going to be my wife!” 

‘‘ No, no, no!” she cried; ‘‘that is all folly; I never 
meant it. Good-bye, and for Heaven’s sake go away, go 
away!” 

She gave an alarmed glance round toward the end of the 
street. It seemed to Walter that he too saw something 
vaguely — a tall spidery outline, a high phaeton, or some- 
thing of the sort. She broke into a little run suddenly, 
waving her hand to him. “ Good-bye!” she cried; “ good- 
bye; go away!” and left him standing stupefied with won- 
der, with incredulous conviction, if such words can be put 
together. He felt in the depths of his heart that she had 
abandoned him, but he could not believe it. No, he could 
not believe it, though he knew it was true. A sort of in- 
stinct of chivalry lingered in the poor lad’s heart, wrung 
and bleeding as it was. He could not harm her, he could 
not spy on her, he could not interfere with her will, what- 
ever she might do to him. He turned his back upon the 
spidery tall phaeton. If that was the thing that was to 
carry her away from him he would not spy, he would not 
put himself in her way. So long as she did what she liked 
best! He turned with his heart bleeding, yet half stupefied 
with trouble, and walked away. 

Poor Walter walked and walked all the rest of the after- 
noon; he did not know where he went or how, his mind 
was stupid with suffering. And then came Sunday, when 
without her the blank was more complete than on any other 


358 


A POOR GEisTLEMAK. 


day. He had not the heart even to seek another interview. 
On Sunday afternoon he went j3ast the house, and the high 
phaeton stood at the door. What more could be said? 
And yet another day or two passed, he did not know how 
many, before Mah stopped the little brougham in which she 
was driving and called to him in the street as he went 
mooning along with his head down in dull and helpless de- 
spondency. 

Mr. Penton! Mr. Penton!^^ The little soft voice call- 
ing him roused Walter from the stupor of his despair. He 
knew nobody in town. It was a wonder to him that any 
one should know him — should take the trouble to call him. 
And then Mab^s little fresh face stabbed him with innocent 
cheerful looks. He was not learned enough to know that 
these innocent looks knew a great deal, and suspected much 
more harm than existed, in their precocious society knowl- 
edge. 

Mab was bent u^doii doing what she could to bring him 
back, and she fully realized all the difficulty; but she looked 
like a child delighted to see her country acquaintance. 

And oh, how is Lady Penton?^^ she cried. 

My mother?^^ gasped Walter, taken altogether by 
surprise. 

Then Mab told him that little story about Lady Penton^s 
health. She will of course make light of it when she 
writes, said the artful little girl. But oh, she looks so 
ill and so pale!^^ (So she does, the little romancer said to 
herself in her heart; it is quite, quite true!) Oh, Mr. 
Penton, do make her see the doctor! do make her take care 
of herself! You could do it better than any one — because 
you know the others don’t notice the great, great change; 
they see her every day.” 

I will!” cried poor Wat. Thank you — thank you a 
thousand times for telling me!” 

It gave him a reason for going home, and he did so want 
a reason, poor boy! His own wretchedness did not seem 
cause enough ; and how was he ever to be forgiven for 
what he had done? But his mother! He would not wait 
to think, he would not let himself consider the matter. 
His mother! And what if she should die! Death had 
never entered that happy house. It seemed to him the 
most horrible of all possibilities. He did not even pause 
to go back to his hotel. Oh, how glad he was of the com- 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


359 


pulsion^ to be thus sent home, to have a reason for going! 
He went flying, without taking time for thought. 

And when Lady Penton threw herself upon him, calling 

Wat, Wat,^^ with that great outcry, he forgot all about 
his wrong-doing and his need of pardon. He caught lier 
in his arms and cried, Mother, are you ill? — Mother, are 
you better?’^ as if there were no other trouble or anxiety 
but this in the world. 

“ Oh, Wat! oh, Wat!^^ she cried, unable on her side to 
think of anything but that he had come back and she had 
him in her arms again: and for a minute or two no more 
was said. Then he led her tenderly back to a chair and 
placed her in it, and knelt down beside her. 

“ Mother, you have been ill — 

]Slo; oh, no, my dear.'^^ And then she remembered 
Mab^s little alarm (dear little Mab! if it should be her 
doing). At least,^^ she said, my dearest boy, there is 
nothing the matter with me that the sight of you will not 
cure.^^ 

Oh, mother,^^ he cried, that you should have to say 
that, that I should have been the cause — 

Hush, hush,^^ she said, pressing him to her; ‘^it is 
all over, Wat, my own boy. You have come home.'’^ 

She asked him no questions, she did not even say that he 
was forgiven; and the youtlTs heart swelled high. I 
think I have iDeen inad,^'' he said. 

But she only replied, kissing him, My own boy, you 
have come home. And what more was there to be said. 

This transport all passed in the dark, with no light in 
the room except the paleness of twilight in the windows, 
the dull glow from the Are, which was an ease and soften- 
ing to the meeting. And then with the lighting of tlie 
cheerful lamps the knowledge spread through the house — 
W at has come home. 

Already!^^ cried Ally, with a flush of radiant joy that 
was more than for her brother. 

Already, Sir Edward said, with a frown that belied 
the sudden ease of his heart. To say what that relief was is 
beyond the power of words. The dark book-room, where 
he sat with his head in his hands and all the world dark 
round him, suddenly became light. A load was lifted from 
his shoulders and from his soul; his mind was freed as from 
chains. But after that first blessed release and relief a 


360 


A POOR GEKTLEMAK. 


seusatioii of humiliation, almost of resentment, came into 
his mind. Already, he said. He had tramped about 
London for days and days and found nothing. Eochford 
had gone and seen and overcome the same day. 

Edward, said Lady Penton, who, though so still, so 
tremulous after the prodigaPs return, had yet felt the 
other anxiety spring up as soon as the first was laid, I 
am sorry for Mr, Eochford. I fear he was making this 
the foundation for a great many hopes. He expected to 
find \Yalter and bring him home, and thus gain our favor 
for— something else.^' 

Well,^^ said Sir Edward with his frown, ^Mt is aston- 
ishing to me how he^s done it. It looks like collusion. I 
suppose it s only a piece of luck, a great piece of luck.^^ 
‘^He has not done it at all,^^ said Lady Penton, Wat 
has not so much as seen him. He has had nothing to do 
with it at all.^^ 

, The cloud rolled off Sir Edward^s brow : he gave ex- 
pression to the delightful relief of his mind in a low laugh. 

"‘I thought, he said, nothing would come of it, he 
was so cock-sure. I thought from the first nothing would 
come of it: but of course you were all a great deal wiser 
than I. So he came home of himself when he was tired? 
Let me see the boy.^^ 


OHAPTEE XLV. 

XO LOXGER COCK-SURE. 

Eochford came back in a sadly humbled condition of 
iniadi He was indeed summoned back by a telegram 
which told him that all was well and his services unneces- 
sary, and retuyied trailing his arms, so to speak, very 
much cast dowm, beginning to say to himself that the 
Eeading solicitor was not at all likely to be considered a fit 
match for Sir Edward Penton^s daughter now^ that all 
chance of special service to the family was over, young- 
idiot! why, after staying away so long, -couldii^t he have 
stayed a little longer? Why not have helped somebody by 
his folly instead of simply dropping from the skies when it 
suited him in his egotism and selfishness? Eochford came 
back deeply humiliated, deeply despondent. He too had 
tramped about London one weary and dismal day, and with 


A POOK (tENTLEMAX. 


3ol 

disgust had recognized that his mission was not so easy as 
he had supposed. He had gone to the post-office which 
Walter had given as his address, and had made what in- 
quiries were possible, and then had hung about hoping that 
'Walter would come to fetch his letter, like those sportsmen 
who hang about the pools where their big game go to drink. 
But no one came; and in the morning had arrived that 
telegram — ‘‘All well; further search unnecessary. Has 
returned honie.'^ Confound him! Why, after making 
everybody miserable, could he not have stayed another day? 
Rochford came home very despondent, taking the black- 
est view of alfairs. If he had but acted with more pru- 
dence in the end of the year — if he had but pushed on mat- 
ters and got that bairgain accomplished before Sir Walter 
had been stricken with his last illness! — then the Fentons, 
though they would still have had the baronetcy, would not 
have been a great county family, and Ally, without fortune 
to speak of, would have made no mmilliance in marrying a 
man who could keep her in luxury though he was but the 
family man of business. But now, though the fortune 
was scarcely greater, the position was very dilferent. The 
mother was very artless, but still she knew enough to know 
that girls so attractive, with the background of Fenton be- 
hind them, even if they had not a penny, were not to be 
thrown away on men like himself. Such was the tenor of 
his thoughts as he came back. He had expected to return 
with trumpets sounding and colors flying, bringing back 
in triumph the wanderer, and having a certain right to his 
recompense. He came now silent and shamed, an officious 
person who had offered more than he could perform, who 
had thrust his services upon those who did not require 
them. He had not even the courage to see Ally before 
he went in humbled to her father. It was his duty to tell 
Sir Edward all that had happened, but he had scarcely a 
doubt as to what must follow. He would be sent away, he 
felt sure; probably he would not be allowed to speak to her 
at all — he the man of business, and she the princess royai, 
the eldest daughter of the house. 

But, to his relief as well as surprise. Sir Edward met him 
with an unclouded countenance. He gave him a warm 
grasp of the hand. He said, “ Well, Rochford, alFs well 
that ends well. You see it was all settled more easily than 
you supposed.^" 


362 


A POOR GJEXTLEMAN. 


You can^t doubt^ Sir Edward, that I am most glad it 
should be so. 

Oh, yes, I^m sure you are; glad — but a little disaj)- 
pointed, eh? — it^s quite natural: you were so cock-sure. 
That is the worst of you young men. You think we elder 
ones are all ninnies; you think we donT know what we are 
about. And you are so certain that you sometimes take us 
in, and we think so too. But you see you are wrong now 
and then,^^ said Sir Edward, with high satisfaction, and 
it turns out that it is we who are in the right. 

Rochford did not fail to remark to himself in passing, 
that though he might be wrong he saw^ very little reason 
for the assertion that Sir Edward was right. But he was 
too much cast down for argument. He said, The chief 
thing is that your anxiety is relieved. I am very glad of 
that — though I should have liked better to have had a hand ^ 
in doing it.^^ And then he drew himself together as best 
he could. There is another subject. Sir Edward, that I 
wished to speak to you about. 

^^Yes, very likely; but you must hear first about 
Walter. So far as I can make out it has been a mere 
escapade, and he has been mercifully saved from commit- 
ting himself, from — compromising his future. We can^t 
be thankful enough for that. He comes back free as he 
went away, and having learned a lesson, I hope, an im- 
portant lesson. We mean to say nothing about it, Roch- 
ford. You^ll not take any notice: I ^m sure we can trust 
in you. 

I hope so,^^ said the young man; and then he repeat- 
ed, Sir Edward, there is another subject---^ ^ 

‘‘ You donT look,^^ said Sir Edward, rubbing his hands 
with internal satisfaction, so cock-sure about fiiat. 

This was not very discouraging if he had retained suf- 
ficient presence of mind to see it. But he was out of heart 
as well as out of confidence, and everything seemed to him 
to be of evil augury. Yo, indeed/^ he said, I am far 
from being sure. I feel that what I am going to ask will 
seem to you very presumptuous: and if it were not that my 
whole heart is in it and all my hopes — 

Ah, you use such words lightly, you young men — 

I donT. use them lightly. If I could help it I would 
put off speaking to you. I would try whether it were not 


A POOR GEI^TLEMAN. 363 

possible to find some way of recommending myself — of 
making you think a little better of me.’^ 

If you suppose/^ cried Sir Edward, benignly, that 
I think less of you because you were not successful about 
Walter you are quite mistaken, Eochford. You had not 
time to do anything. He left town almost as soon as you 
arrived in it. I never expect impossibilities, even when 
they are promised, he added, with a nod of his head. 

It is I that am looking for impossibilities. Sir Edward. 
I can^t think how I could have been so bold. I have been 
letting myself think that perhaps — that if you could be got 
to take it into consideration — that, that in .short — . 

And Mr. Eochford, crimsoning, growing pale, changing 
from one foot to another, looking all embarrassment and 
awkwardness, came to a dead stop and could find nothing 
more to say. 

What is it? You seem to have great difficulty in get- 
ting it out. What have I in my power that is so import- 
ant, and that you are so shy about 

‘‘lam shy, that is just the word. You will think me — 
I don^t know what you will think me — 

“ Get it out, man. I can^t tell till I know.-’^ 

“ Sir Edward, ’^ said Eochford, more and more embar- 
rassed, “ your daughter — 

“ Oh, my daughter! Is that how it is?^^ It is not to 
be supposed that a day had elapsed after Walter ^s return 
and the relief of mind that followed it without some com- 
munication passing between Lady Pen ton and her husband 
on the second of the subjects that had excited her so deeply. 

“Sir Edward,^'’ said the young man, “Miss Penton^s 
family and position are of course superior to mine. It all 
depends on the way these matters are looked upon. Some 
people would consider this an insuperable obstacle. Some 
do not attach much importance to it. Ideas have changed 
so much on this subject. My grandfather, as perhaps you 
are aware, married a Miss Davenport of Doncaster. But I 
don^t know how you may look on that sort of thing. 

“ I don ’t exactly see th6#connection,^^ said Sir Edward; 
“ your grandfather^s marriage was a good while ago.'’^ 

“ Yes, when prejudices were a great deal stronger than 
now. Though they exist in some places, I have the strong- 
est reason to believe that among the best people they are no 


364 


A POOR GEJSTTLEMAN. 


longer held as they used to be. Eva Milton married a 
Manchester man that had no education to speak of at all.^^ 

Are you arguing the question on abstract principlesP^ 
said Sir Edward, who was nursing his foot, and looking 
half-amused, half-bored. His companion was too anxious 
to be able to judge what this look meant, and he was sadly 
afraid of irritating the authority in whose hands his happi- 
ness lay. 

‘' Oil, no, not at all,^"' he cried, anxiously; I wanted to 
remind you, sir, that it was not the first time that such 
things had been done. It^s lio abstract question: all 
that I look forward to in life depends on it. I am not 
badly olf, as I can prove to you if you wdll let me. Ecould 
keep my wife, if I had the good fortune to — to — make sure 
of that — surrounded by everything that belongs to her 
sphere. There should be nothing wanting in that way. I 
could make settlements that would be, I think, satisfact- 
ory."" 

Is that how you talked to Ally.^^’ said Sir Edward, a 
perception of the humor of the situation breaking in. 

How astonished she must have been!’^ His mind was so 
unusually at ease that he was ready to smile even in the 
midst of an important arrangement like this. 

To Ally!^^ cried Eochford, startled by the reference, 
and in his confusion unable to see how much it was in his 
favor. Ko, sir,^^ he said, . eagerly, ‘‘not a. word! Do 
you think I would fret her delicate mind with any such 
suggestions? Ko. She is far above all that. She knows 
nothing about it. I may not be worthy of her, but at least 
I know how to appreciate her. She has heard nothing like 
this from me. ’ 

“ But I suppose you must think that what you did say 
was not \ldthout effect, and that the appreciation is not all 
on your side? You donT mind fretting my delicate mind, 
it appears,^^ said Sir Edward; and then, in a sharper tone, 
“ How far has this matter gone?^^ 

“ Sir Edward, stammered the young man: his anxiety 
stupefied instead of quickening his senses; he seemed able 
.0 perceive nothing that was noUigainst him, “ I — I — 

“ Y^ou donT give me very miioli information,^^ repeated 
the father. “ CaiiT you tell me how far this matter has 
gone?^' 

Eochford was a keen man of business. He was not to be 


A POOR GE.\TLE.MAN. 365 

overpowered by the most powerful judge or the most ag- 
gravating jury. He was in the habit of stating very clearly 
what he wanted to say. But now he stood before this trib- 
unal stammering, without a word to say for himself. Sir 
Edward,^^ he repeated, “if I had taken time to think I 
should have felt that you ought to have been consulted 
first. But ill an unguarded moment — my — my feelings 
got the better of me. I saw her unexpectedly alone. And 
then,^Mie added with melancholy energy, “I thought, I' 
confess, that if I could be of use, if I could find and bring 
back — 

“ I see,^^ said Sir Edward, “ that was why you undertook 
so much. It was scarcely very straightforward, was it, to 
profess all that interest in the brother when it was the sister 
you were thinking of all the time?^^ 

“ Perhaps it might not be straightforward,^^ owned the 
unsuccessful one; “and yet,^^ after a pause, “ it w^as no 
pretense. I was interested, if you will let me say so, in — 
all the family. Sir Edward. I should have been too glad — 
to be of any use: even if there had been no — even if there 
had not existed — even if — 

“ I see,^^ said the stern judge again: and then there was 
a dreadful pause. Circumstances alter much, but not 
even the advanced views of the nineteenth century can 
alter the position in which a young lover stands before the 
father of the girl he loves — a functionary perhaps a little 
discredited by the march of modern ideas, but who never- 
theless has still an enormous power in his hands, a power 
which the feminine heart continues to believe in, which is 
certainly able to cause a great deal of discomfort and in- 
convenience, if nothing else. Eochford stood thoroughly 
cowed, wdth his eyes cast down, before this great arbiter of 
fate, although after a while, as the silence continued, there 
began to crop up in his mind suggestions, resolutions: how 
nothing should make him resign his hopes; how only Ally 
herself could loose the bond between them, how he would 
take courage to say to the father that however much they 
respected him his decision would not be absolute, that on 
the contrary it could be resisted, that the two whose happi- 
ness was involved — that the two — the two — words which 
made his heart jump with a sudden throb in the midst of 
this horrible uncertainty — would stand against the world 
together not to be sundered. All these heroic thoughts 


366 


A POOR GEKTLEMAi^-. 


gathered in his mind as he stood awaiting the tremendous 
parental decision, which came in a form so utterly unex- 
pected, so bewildering, that he could only gasp, and for a 
moment could not reply. This was what Sir Edward said : 

You know, I suppose, that my girls will have no money, 
Eochford?^^ 

Sir!^^ cried the lover, with a burst of pent-up breath 
which seemed to carry away with it the burden of a whole 
lifetime of care from his soul. 

They will have no money. I am a poor man, and 
have always, been so all my life. If you have not known 
that before you will have to know it now in your capacity 
(as you say) of the Penton man of business. To keep up 
Fenton will tax every resource. We shall be rather poorer, 
my wife thinks, than we have been at the Hook; and as 
for the girls-— 

Hd you mean that that^s allr^^ cried the young mam 
You doiiT make any — other objection? What do you 
think J^m made of? IdonT want any money. Sir Edward. 
Money! when there is Miss Penton— Ally, if I may call her 
so. How shall I ever thank you enough? I have plenty 
of money; it^s not money I want, it^s — it^s — 

Words failed him: he stood and swung Sir Edward^s 
hand, who looked not without a glow of pleasurable feeling 
at this young fellow who beamed with gratitude and delight. 
It is never unpleasant to confer so great a favor. This 
had not been generally the j)Osition in which fate had 
placed Edward Penton. It had been usually the other way. 
He had received few blessings, even from the beggars, 
having so little to give; but an emperor could not have 
conferred a greater gift tlian his daughter, a spotless little 
princess of romance, a creature altogether good and fair and 
sweet. He felt the water come into his eyes out of that", 
simple sense of munificence and liberal generosity. ‘‘I 
think,^^ he said, you Ye a good fellow, Eochford, and that 
youYl be good to little Ally. • She Y too young for anything 
of the kind, but her mother sees no objection. And she 
ought to know best.^^ 


A POOR GENTLEMAK". 


367 


CHAPTER XLVL 

THE FATE OF THE CHIFFOHIER. 

The family of Pen ton Hook took possession of the great 
house of Penton in the spring. It need scarcely be said 
that there were endless consultations, discussions, commit- 
tees of ways and means of every imaginable kind before 
this great removal was accomplished. Lady Penton^s first 
visit to her new home was one which was full of solemnity. 
It was paid in much state, a visit of ceremony, greatly 
against the wish of both of the visitors and the visited, 
before the Russell Pentons withdrew from the great house. 

We must go to bid them good-bye,^ ^ Sir Edward said. 

We must not fail in any civility. 

Do you call that civility? She will hate the sight of 
us. I should myself in her place,^^ Lady Penton cried. 

But he had his way, as was to be expected. They drove 
to Penton in the new carriage, which Lady Penton could 
not enjoy for thinking how much it cost, behind that worthy 
and excellent pair of brown horses, more noted for their 
profound respectability and virtue than for appearance or 
speed, which Sir Edward had consented to buy with some 
mortification, but which his wife approved as a pair, without 
much knowledge of the points in which they were defective. 
He knew that Russell Penton set them down as a pair of 
screws at the first glance; but Lady Penton, who had never 
possessed a pair of horses before, was quite impervious to 
this, and appreciated the grandeur, though never without 
a pang at the cost. But the sight of the great drawing- 
room overwhelmed the visitor. The first coii'p d'mil of the 
beautiful, vast room, with its row of pillars, its vast 
stretches of carpets, its costly furniture, so stupefied her 
that the sight of Mrs. Russell Penton herself in her deep 
mourning, and that look of injured majesty of which she 
could not, with all her efforts, divest herself, failed to pro- 
duce the effect which otherwise it must have had. Lady 
Penton had fully intended to take no notice, to banish if 
possible from her face all appearance of curiosity or of the 
natural investigation which a first visit to the house which 
was to be her own would naturally give rise to; but she 


368 A POOR GENTLEMAN. 

could not quite conceal the startled dismay of her first 
glance — a sentiment which was more agreeable to the pre- 
vious mistress of the house than any other would have 
been. It was not very amiable, perhaps, on the part of 
Mrs. Russell Penton, to be pleased that her successor should 
thus be overwhelmed by the weight of the inheritance-— but 
perhaps it was natural enough. 

It was not possible that the conversation should be other- 
wise than restrained and difficult. Russell Penton, as 
usual, threw himself into the breach. He entered into a 
lively description of their plans of travel. 

We both of us love the sunshine,^^ he said; England 
is the noblest of countries, but she is far away from the 
center of warmth and light. There is no saying how far 
we may go southward before we come back.^^ 

But you were always fond of home, Alicia,^^ said (this 
being, of course, as all his companions remarked, the very 
last thing that ought to have occurred to him to say) the 
new proprietor of Penton. 

Home, I suspect, she said, in her formal way, is 
more where one chooses to make it than I have hitherto 
thought. And then there was a pause. 

^^The weather will be quite delightful by this time in 
Italy, I suppose, said Lady Penton, timidly. ^^I have 
never traveled at all; we have never had it in our power; 
but it seems as if it should always be fine there. 

It is not, though. There is no invariable good 
weather, said Russell Penton. ‘^It generally turns out 
to be exceptional, and just as bad as what you have left, 
wherever you go.^^ 

He had forgotten his little flourish of trumpets about the 
sunshine; and again they all sat silent, gazing at each other 
for a few terrible moments, asking each other on each side. 
Why did they come? and. Why did we come? 

The river has kept in tolerable bounds this year,^^ said 
Russell Penton, catching at a new subject; no doubt 
because we have had less rain than usual. Come to the 
window, and let me show you the view.^^ He led Lady 
Penton to the further end of the room, where a side win- 
dow commanded the whole range of the river, with the red 
roofs of Penton Hook making a spot of warm color low 
down by the side of the stream. I am glad you see it 


A POOR GEKTLEAIAN. 


369 


before anything is disturbed,'" he said; an enii^ty house is 
always a sight of dismay."" 

Oh, I wish it were never to be disturbed at all!"" cried 
the poor lady; ‘‘ I feel a dreadful impostor — an usurper-r-as 
if we were taking it from its rightful owner. It is all so 
suitable to her, and she to it/" she continued, casting an 
alarmed, admiring look to where the mistress of the house 
sat, an imposing ligure, all crape and jet, like a queen 
about to abdicate, but not with her will. 

‘‘ Yes, for she has made it all,"" said the Prince Consort 
of the place; but so will it be suitable to you when you 
have re-made it. Lady Penton; and if it is any consola- 
tion to you to know, I shall be a much happier man out of 
this house. After, awhile I believe everything will be 
brighter for us both. But don"t let us talk of that. We 
have all had enough of the subject. Tell me what you are 
going to do about Mab, who lias fallen so deeply in love 
■ with you all."" 

“ She is a dear little girl,"" said Lady Penton. I have 
asked her to come and pay us a long visit."" 

That is very kind; but pray remember that it would 
be still kinder to her to let her be with you as she wishes. 
She has more money than a little girl ought to have. It 
will be good and kind in every way. "" 

Lady Penton shook her head as he w^ent on talking. 
Some people are proud in one w^ay and some in another. 
She did not think much of Mab"s money. She was ready 
to open her heart to the orphan girl, but not to profit by^ 
her. They stood in the window with the great landscape 
before them, and the great room behind, which was too 
splendid even for that chiffonier; and involuntarily Lady 
Penton"s mind went back to that overwhelming question of 
the furniture, which was so much more important than 
little Mab and her fortune. To think of bringing any- 
thing from the Hook here! The chairs and tables would 
be lost even if they were not so shabby. Nothing would 
bear transplanting but the children, And you can"t fur- 
nish a house with children,"" she said, ruefully, to herself. 

Your wife no doubt will alter everything,"" said Mrs. 
Russell Penton, following the other pair with her eyes. 

How could you think so, iVliciar It shall be altered as 
little as possible. Everything that belongs to the past is 
as dear to me as to you. "" 


370 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


I said your wife/" said Alicia. And then she added, 
IN'o doubt she would like to go over the house."" 

She wishes nothing, I am sure, that would vex you/" 
Sir Edward said. 

Vex! I hope I have not so little self-command. The 
place has become indifferent indeed to me. It was dear by 
association, but now that"s all ended. One ends where an- 
other begins. I can only hope, Edward, that your branch 
of the family will be more fortunate— more—than ours 
have been. "" 

‘‘ Thank you, Alicia. I hope that you may be very 
happy, Eussell and you. He"s as good a fellow as lives; 
and I"m sure, a delightful companion to be alone with. "" 

Are you recommending my husband to me?"" she said, 
with one of those smiles which made her cousin, whose 
utterances certainly were very inappropriate, shrink into 
himself. Don"t you think I ought to know better than 
any one what a delightful companion he is? And I hear 
you are to have a marriage in your family. Harry Eoch- 
ford will, I hope, prove a delightful companion too. "" 

‘^He is a good fellow,"" said poor Sir Edward, able to 
think of no more original phrase. He is not quite in the 
position a Penton might have looked for — "" 

^^Oh,"" she cried, hastily, what does that matter?— 
there are Pentons and Pentons. And your daughter, Ed- 
ward — your daughter — "" 

I am sorry you don"t think well of my daughter, 
Alicia. "" 

I never said so. She is very pretty and what people 
call sweet. I know no more of her; how could I? I was 
going to say she looked unambitious. And against Harry 
Eochford there is not a word to be said. Don"t you think 
your wife would like to see over the house?"" 

This is how they parted, without any warm ra])proclie- 
ment^ though Alicia, with her usual consciousness of her 
own faults and her husband"s opinion, involuntarily con-* 
demned every word she herself said, and everything she 
did, while she almost forced Lady Penton from one room 
to another, each of which filled that jDoor lady with deeper 
and deeper dismay. But, notwithstanding this secret cur- 
rent of self-disapproval, and notwithstanding the certainty 
she had of what her husband felt on the subject, there was 
a certain stern pleasure in bidding her supplanters good-bye 


A POOR OENTLEMAi^'. 


371 


on the threshold of the house that was still her own; dis« 
missing them, so to speak, for the last time from Penton 
with a keen sense of the despondency and discouragement 
with which they went away. She took notice of everything 
as she did them that unusual honor, which was an aggrava- 
tion under the circumstances, of accompanying them to the 
door; of the pair of screws — of the absence of any footman 
— and, still more, of the depressed looks of the simple pair* 
All these things gave her a thrill of satisfaction. Who 
were they, to be the possessors of Penton? They did not 
even appreciate it — did not admire it— thought of the ex- 
pense! But she went upstairs again with her husband 
following her, feeling more like a culprit, a school-boy who 
is expecting a lecture, than it was consistent with Alicia's 
dignity to feel. Russell did not say anything, but he 
showed inclinations to whistle, as it were, under his breath* 

I am very glad this is over," she said. 

So am I," he replied. 

‘‘I know what you think, Gerald — that I ought to be 
more sympathetic. In what way could I be sympaihetic? 
She is buried in calculations as to how they are to live here; 
and he — " 

I respect her calculations," said Russell Penton. It 
is a dreadful white elephant to come into the poor lady's 
hands." 

‘‘ And yet you scarcely concealed your pleasure when’ it 
passed away from me — to whom it has always been a home 
so dear." 

‘‘ I never stand on my consistency, Alicia. I am glad 
and sorry about the same thing, you see. I am sorry that 
you are sorry to* go away, yet I can't help being glad that 
you are freed from the bondage of this place, which has 
been a kind of idol to you all; and I am glad they have it^ 
yet sorry for poor Lady Penton and her troubled looks* 
^¥hen we go away from Penton I shall feel as if we were 
starting for our honey-moon." 

‘‘ Don't say so, Gerald — when you think how it is that 
this has come about." 

It has come about by a great grief, my darling, yet a 
natural one — one that could not have been long averted. 
And I hoj3e you don't object', Alicia, now that you have 
fulfilled your duty to the last detail, that your husband 


372 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


should be glad to have you more his own than Pentoii 
would ever have permitted you to be.^^ • 

She accepted the kiss he gave her, not without a sense of 
the sweetness of being loved, but yet with a consciousness 
that when he spoke of her fulfilling her duty to the last 
detail he implied a certain satisfactioirin having got rid of 
that duty at last. She knew as well as he did, with a faint 
pleasure mingling with many a thought of pain and some 
of irritation, that this setting out together was indeed at 
last their real honey-moon, in so far as that consists of a life 
together and alone. 

Lady Penton returned very grave and overwhelmed with 
thought to the shelter of those red roofs at the Hook which 
made so picturesque a point in the landscape from Penton. 
She did not make any response to the children who rushed 
out in a body to see the parents come home, to admire the 
pair of screws, and the new carriage. She went into the 
drawing-room and gazed long upon the chiffonier, meas- 
uring and gauging it with her eye from every side. It had, 
as hiis been said, a plate-glass back, and it was inlaid, and 
had various brass ornaments entitling it to the name of 
ormolu. She touched its corners with her hand lovingly, 
then shook her head. Not even the chiffonier will do for 
Penton, she said; ‘^not even the chiffonier!^^ Nothing 
olse could have given the family such an idea of the gran- 
deur of the great house, and their own grandeur to whom 
it belonged, as well as of the saddening yet exhilarating 
fact that everything would have to be got new. 

Well, my dear,^^ said Sir Edward, ‘‘ we must make up 
our minds to that, for to tell the truth, though you were 
always so pleased with that piece of furniture, I never liked 
it much. 

He never liked it much! Lady Penton turned a re- 
proachful glance upon her husband ; it was as if he had 
abandoned a friend in trouble. 

Edward,^ ^ she said, with a tone of despair, if this 
will not do, nothing will do — nothing we have. I had given 
up the carpets and curtains, but I still had a fond hope — I 
thought that one side of the room, at any rate, would be 
furnished with that j but it would be nothing in the Penton 
drawing-room — nothing! And if that won^t do, nothing 
will do."" 

My dear,"" Sir Edward said — he planted himself very 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 


373 


firmly on his feet, with the air of Fitzjames, in the poem, 
aetting his back against the rock — my dear/^ he repeated, 
looking round as who should say, 

“ Come one, come all, this rock shall tly 
From its firm base as soon as I: ” 

I have thought of all that; and I have something to pro- 
pose. You must not take me up in a hurry, but hear me 
out. We are all very fond of Penton Hook; but we can^t 
live in two houses at once.^^ 

Especially when they are so close to each other, cried 
Anne, instinctively standing up by him. ‘‘ I know what 
father means. 

She was the only one whose mind was disengaged and 
free to follow every new initiative. Ally was altogether 
occupied by her new prospects, and Walter, though he did 
his best to resume his old aspect, was still too much ab^ 
sorbed in those that were past. Anne alone was the cheer- 
ful present, the to-day of the family, ready to take up every 
suggestion. She stood up by her father womanfully and 
put her arm through his. I am with you, father — though 
T^m not of much account, she said. 

Lady Penton withdrew her regretful gaze from her 
chiffonier. She did not, to tell the truth, expect any prac- 
tical light about the furniture from her husband, who was 
only a theorist in such matters, or the enthusiast by his 
side; but she was a woman of impartial mind, and she 
would not refuse to listen. She turned her mild eyes upon 
the pair. 

Well, then,^^ said Sir Edward, ‘‘ this is what I am go- 
ing to propose: that I should let the Hook as it stands 
—poor old house, it is shabby enough, but in summer 
it will always bring a fair rent. Take away nothing; 
the chiffonier shall stand in all its glory, and you can come 
back and look at it, my dear, from time to time. And 
look here, it is no use straining at a gnat; we must make 
up our minds to it. As soon as my cousin goes we must 
write to Gillow or somebody — who is the best man? — to go 
in at once to Penton and furnish it from top to bottom. It 
is no use straining at a gnat, as I say. We must just make 
a great gulp and get it down.^ ’ 

Straining at a — do you call that a gnat, Edward? It 
is a camel you mean,^'' 


374 


A POOR GENTLEMA]Sr. 


Camel or not, my dear/^ said Sir Edward, with a look 
of determination; that is how it must be/^ 

They all held their breath at this tremendous resolution. 
But as for Gillow, that is nonsense. It must be Maple 
at the very utmost/^ Lady Penton said. 


CHAPTER XLVIL 

AN AGITATING ENCOUNTER. 

It was spring before these changes were accomplished 
and the family got into Penton, all newly furnished from 
top to bottom as Sir Edward in his magnificence had said. 
Perhaps this was not exactly true, for Lady Penton kept an 
unwearying eye upon all the movements of the workmen, 
and decided that it was unnecessary to touch many of the 
rooms where there was still enough of furniture to make 
them habitable, or which only the exigencies of a very large 
party of visitors would make necessary — and that was not a 
contingency likely to occur. They took up their residence 
in Penton when the woods were all carpeted with prim- 
roses, and everything was opening to the new life and hope 
of the growing season. No doubt it was evident at once 
that the grandeur of the old Pen tons, their cold but splen- 
did dignity of living, and all the self -restrained, yet self- 
conscious wealth of their manners and ways, the costliness, 
the luxury, the state, were not to be reproduced; but then 
the house had become a cheerful house, which it never was. 
under Mrs. Russell Penton^s sway. It was no longer silent 
with one stately figure moving here and there, and Russell 
Penton, fretted" and impatient, protesting in his morning 
coat with his hands in his pockets against the splendor. 
There was no splendor now, but a f)erpetual movement, a 
flitting of many groups about the lawns, a sound of cheer- 
ful voices. 

The children enjoyed it with their whole hearts, and Mab 
Russell, who had come upon that promised long visit, and 
had managed to establish herself with the maid and the 
man who were attached to her little person, and other ac- 
cessories, which looked like a very long visit, indeed- 
plunged into the midst of all their diversions, and became 
the ringleader in all nursery mischief. I never had any 
growing up,^^ she said. ‘^I have always been out and see- 


A POOK GEKTLE3IAIS'. 


375 


ing everything. I don’t like grown-up j)eople, except you. 
Lady Pen ton. Let me go back to the nursery; and then I 
can "be promoted to the school-room, and then burst upon 
the world. After Ally and Anne are both married I shall 
be of such use. You can’t do without a grown-up daugh- 
ter. But I am only in the nursery now. ” Anne is not 
thinking of marrying, my dear. She is too young,” Lady 
Penton would say, which was all the gentle protest she 
made against Mab’s claim. For she was very pitiful of the 
poor little orphan — and then Walter — Perhaps it is not 
possible to be a mother without admitting certain schemes 
into one’s head. And Sir Edward, for his part, did not 
oppose, which was more curious. He was not fond of 
strangers, and as he; like his wife, was too proud to hear 
of Mab’s allowance, and her horses and she were a great 
expense to the restrained and economical household, it may 
perhaps be supposed that the father, though no schemer, 
had fancies in his mind, too. 

The one in the house whose heart beat low, whose life 
seemed to have sunk into the shadow, was the one of all 
others who should have been the brightest, and whose be- 
ginning of existence included most capabilities of enjoy- 
ment. Walter was now the heir of Penton in reality. He 
had attained everything he had once looked forward to. 
More than this, he had that little fortune of his own which 
in a few months would be in his actual and unfettered pos- 
session. But his life, before ever it opened out, had been 
chilled. It seemed to him at first that life and all its joys 
were over for him. It wafe not only that he had been dis- 
appointed in his love, but it had been associated to him 
v/ith all the disgusts that affect youth so profoundly; he 
Iiad touched the mercenary, the meretricious, the degraded, 
and his pride had been humbled by the contact. Yet he 
had been ready to endure that contact, to submit to be 
linked with these horrors for the sake of his love. He had 
known even in the midst of his rapture of youthful fan- 
tastic passion, that to be linked with all these debasing cir- 
cumstances would take the fragrance and the beauty out of 
life. To have Mrs. Sam Crockford for his mother-in-law, 
to recognize that uncleanly, untid^^, sordid little house as 
Emmy’s home would have been misery even in the midst 
of bliss; he had been aware of this even in the hottest of 
his pursuit, while he was possessed by the image of Emmy, 


376 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


and could think of no possibility of happiness save that of 
marrying her. Had it been Crockford^s cottage in all its 
old-fashioned humility; had it been the kind/ deaf, dear 
old woman who had been familiar to him all Ms life, how 
different! But the dreadful woman in that dreadful parlor, 
with her smile, and her portraits all smiling just the same 
upon the dingy walls, with her white, horrible, unwhole- 
some hands, even in Emmy^s presence how he had shud- 
dered at her! I’hese images oppressed the poor boy^s im- 
agination like a nightmare — he could not forget them; and 
he could not forget her who had made him accept and 
tolerate all that, who still could, if she would but hold up 
a finger, make everything possible. How was it that this 
magic existed? What was the meaning of it? He knew 
now with more or less certainty what Emmy was. She was 
not, notwithstanding the cleverness of speech which had so 
filled him with wonder at first, either educated or refined; 
and she was not beautiful. He was able to perceive even 
that. He saw, too, and hated himself for seeing, indica- 
tions of her mother^s face in Emniy^s, the beginning of 
that horrible smile. And he knew also that she had no re- 
sponse to make to the enthusiastic love in his own youthful 
breast, the passion of devotion and self-abandonment which 
had swept in his mind all precaution and common sense 
away. No such operations had taken place in her. She 
had weighed him in the balance of the most common, the 
most prosaic form of sense, that of worldly advantage — of 
money. His heart was sore with all these wounds, he felt 
them in every fiber. It had been taken into consideration 
whether he was rich enough, whether he had enough to 
offer. She whom he loved with extravagant youthful de- 
votion, ready to sacrifice everything for her, even his tastes, 
the manners and ways of thinking in which he had been 
brought up, had tried him by the vulgarest of tests. How 
could a young heart bear all this? Seldom, very seldom, 
does so complete a disenchantment come to one so young; 
for Walter did not take it as young Pendemiis'did, or learn 
to laugh at his own delusion. He had no temptation to 
laugh; he could not put out of his pained young being the 
thought that it could not be true, that after all there must 
be some mistake in it, that his love must have judged 
rightly, that his disenchantment was but some horrible 
work of the devil. And wounded, undeceived, quivering 


A POOK GENTLEMAN. 377 

with paia as he was, his heart still yearned after her; he 
formed to himself pictures of what he might find if he 
stole back unawares, without any warning. He imagined 
her sitting in dreariness and solitude, perhaps shut up by 
the mother lest she should call him back, a patient martyr, 
knowing ho>v she had been vilified in his eyes — but not 
vilified, oh, no, only mistaken. He fed his heart with 
dreams of this kind even while he knew — knew by experi- 
ence, by certainty, by her own words, and looks, and senti- 
ments, noways disguised, that the fact was not so. Women 
more often go on loving after the beloved has lost all illu- 
sion than men do, but perhaps in extreme youth the boy 
has tliis experience oftener than the girl. Poor Walter had 
been stabbed in every sensitive part, and felt his wounds all 
keen; but still he could not ]3ut her out of his heart. 

And the consequence of this morbid and divided soul was 
that his being altogether was weakened and the life made 
languid in it. He had no heart, as people say, for any- 
thing. He left the Hook without regret, and entered on 
the larger life of Penton without pleasure; everything was 
obscured to him as if a veil were over it. No joy the 
blowing season gives,^^his vitality had sunk altogether. It 
was arranged that he was to go to Oxford in April, but he 
felt neither pleasure nor unwillingness. It was all unreal 
to liim; nothing was real but that little episode. Emmy 
in her brightness and lightness by his side in the streets, 
making those little expeditions with him in all the confi> 
dence and closeness of belonging to him, two betrothed 
that were like one; and the mother in the background with 
her hands, which he still seemed to feel and shudder at. 
He had almost daily impulses to go and see all these scenes 
again, to see the actors in them, to make out if they were 
false or true. But he did not do so, perhaps because of the 
languor of his being, perhaps because he was afraid of any 
one divining what he wanted, perhaps because he clung to 
some ray of illusion still. 

There began, however, to be frequent visits to town. 
Lady Penton being absorbed in that important matter of 
Aliyas trousseau, which could no longer be deferred. What 
changes seemed to have happened in their life since the 
time vvhen they all went up to London, a simple party, to 
provide wliat was necessary for the visit to Penton! Pen- 
ton, it had seemed at that time, would never be theirs; they 


378 


A POOR GEKTLEMA]^. 


were giving it up and contemplating a comfortable ob- 
scurity with a larger income and no responsibilities. Now 
they had indeed the larger income, but so many responsi- 
bilities with it, and so much to be done, that the poverty 
of Penton Hook seemed almost wealth in comparison; yet 
— ^for the mind accustoms itself very quickly to what is, 
however much it may have struggled for a different way — 
there was perhaps no one of the family who could now have 
returned to the Hook without the most humiliating sense 
of downfall, a feeling which Lady Penton herself shared,, 
in spite of herself. The troiis^ 



of the thoughts of the ladies 


great many shops to go to, and when by times one of the 
male members of the family accompanied them, it was 
tedious work inspecting their proceedings and waitings 
looking on, while so many stuffs were turned over and pat- 
terns compared. 

It happened one of these days that Walter was of the 
party. How he had been got to join it nobody knew, for 
he shrunk from London and could scarcely be induced to 
enter it at all, his inclinations, and yet not his inclinations 
so much as his dreams, and that uneasy sense that his dis^- 
illusiomnent might of itself be an illusion, drew him in one 
direction, while all the impulses of the moment were to- 
ward the other way. But this day he had come he could 
not tell why. Mab was one of the party, and though it 
can not be said that Mab^s presence was an attraction, yet 
there was a certain camaraderie between the two, and she 
had taken it upon herself to talk to him, to attempt to 
amuse and interest him, when nobody knew how to ap- 
proach him in his forlorn languor so unlike himself. Even 
Ally and Anne, his sisters, were so moved by sympathy for 
Wat, and by dismayed wondering what he was thinking of 
and what they could say, what depths of his recently ac- 
quired experience he was straying in, and what they could 
do to call him back from those depths — that they were 
silenced even by their feeling for him. But Mab had no 
such restraint upon her, though she knew more than they 
did, having seen him at the very crisis of his fate; and 
though she thought she knew a great deal more than she 
really knew, Mab had no such awed and trembling respect 
for Walter ^s experiences as the others had, and would break 
in upon him frankly and talk until he threw off his dreams^ 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


379 


or persuade him into a walk in the woods, or to join them 
in something which made him for the moment forget him- 
self. His idea was that she knew nothing of that one un- 
revealed chapter in his history which the others, he thought, 
could 'not forget; so that Mab and Walter were very good 
friends. Even now, when Ally and her mother were busy 
over their silks and muslins, Mab left that interesting dis- 
cussion by times to talk to Walter, who lounged about dis- 
traity as creatures of his kind will, in a shop adapted for 
the wants of the other half of humanity. Walter stood 
about waiting, taking little notice of anything except when 
he turned at her call to respond to what Mab said to him, 
and that was only by intervals. It was in one of these 
pauses that his eye was caught by a group at a little dis- 
tance, which at first had no more interest for him than any 
other of the groups about. It was in one of the subdivi- 
sions of the great shop, framed in on two sides by stands 
upon which hung all kinds of cloaks and mantles. In the 
vacant space in the middle were two or three ladies, at- 
tended upon by one of the young women of the shop, who 
was trying on for their gratification one mantle after an- 
other, while the customers looked on to judge of the effect. 
These figures moved before Walter^s dreamy eyes vaguely 
without attracting his attention, until* suddenly something 
in the attitude of one of them struck upon his awakening 
sense. She was standing before a tall glass, which reflected 
her figure, with the silken garment which she was trying on 
drawn about her with a little shrug and twist of her shoul- 
ders to get it into its place. Wat^s heart began to beat, 
the mist fied from his eyes. The group grew distinct in a 
moment, separated as it was from all the others by the little 
fence half round, the light coming down from above upon 
the slim, elastic %ure with all its graceful curves, standing 
so lightly as if but newly poised on earth, turning round 
with the air he knew so well. He had a moment of eblouis- 
■sement, of bewilderment, and then it all became clear and 
plain. He made but the very slightest movement, uttered 
not a word; the shock of the discovery, the thrill of her 
presence so near him, were too penetrating to be betrayed 
by outward signs. He stood like one stupefied, though all 
his faculties on the moment had become so keen and clear. 
There was no possibility of any doubt; her light hair, all 
curled on her forehead^ her face so full of brightness and 


380 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


animatioiG gleamed oufc upon him as she turned round. 
Emmy here, before his eyes! 

It was like watching a little drama to see her amid the 
more severely clothed", cloaked, and bonneted figures of the 
ladies round. Her head was uncovered. She was in what 
seemed her natural place. Her patience seemed boundless. 
She took down cloak after cloak and slid them about her 
graceful shoulders, and made a few paces up and down to 
show them. It was a pretty occupation enough. She was 
dressed well; her natural grace made what she was doing 
appear no vulgar service, but an action full of courtesy and 
patience. The unfortunate boy watched her with eyes 
which enlarged and expanded with gazing. This, then, 
was what she had been doing while he had waited for her, 
while he had been her faithful attendant. She had 'never 
betrayed it to him. Sometimes he had believed that she 
was a teacher, sometimes that she went to work some- 
where, he did not know how. This was what her occupa- 
tion had been all the time To make a trade out of her 
pretty gracefulness, her slim, youthful, easy figure, her 
perception of what was comely, while he was there who 
would have taken her out of all that, who would so fain 
have given her all he, had. Why had she not come to him? 
He watched the pretty head turn, and that twist of the 
shoulders settling the new wrap. They were all beautiful 
on her. Hid the women vvho were round her believe — 
could they believe that they could resemble Emmy — that 
anything could ever make them like her? 

Walter^s whole aspect changed, he stood as if on tiptoe 
watching that little scene. At last the bargain was de- 
cided, the purchase made; the figures changed places, went 
and came from one side to another, as in the theater, then 
dissolved away, leaving her there before the big glass, in a 
little pose of her own, contemplating herself. It w^as in 
this glass that by and by Emmy, looking at herself, with 
her head now on one side, now on the other, suddenly per- 
ceived a stranger approaching, a gentleman, not with the 
air of a customer, coming along hurriedly with his face 
turned toward her. Emmy was sufficiently used to be ad- 
mired. She knew as well as any one that her pretty figure, 
as she put on the cloaks that hung about, was a pretty 
sight to see, that the graceful little tricks with which she 
arranged them on her shoulders gave piquancy to her own 


A POOK (r EN TLEM A X. 


381 


a])p«arance, and a grace which perhaps did not belong to it 
to the article of apparel which she put on. She knew this, 
and so did her employers, who engaged her for this grace, 
and profited by her prettiness and lier skill. But Emmy 
w'as very well aware that with strange gentlemen in this 
sanctuary of the feminine she had nothing to do. She 
made her preparations for retiring discreetly before the ap- 
proaching man. But before she did so she gave him a 
glance over her shoulder, a glance of invincible inherent 
coquetry, just to let him see that she perceived she was ad- 
mired, and had no objection theoretically, though as a 
practical matter the thing was impossible. As she gave 
him this look through the medium of the big mirror, Em- 
my recognized Walter as he had recognized her. She gave 
a sudden low cry of alarm, and put up her hands to her 
face to hide herself, and then darted like a startled hare 
through the intricacies of all those subdivisions. Walter 
called out her name, and hurried after her, breathless, for- 
getting everything, but in a moment found himself hope- 
lessly astray amid screens which balked his j^assage and 
groups of ladies who stared at him as if he had been a 
madman. Those screens, with their hanging finery, those 
astonished groups disturbed in their occupation, seemed to 
swallow up all trace of the little light figure which had dis- 
appeared in a moment. He stumWed on as far as he could 
till he was met by a severe and stately personage who 
blocked the way. 

Is there anything I can show you, sirr^^ this stately lady 
said, who was as imperious as if she had been a duchess. 

I — I saw some one I knew,^’ said Walter; if I might 
but speak to her for a moment.^' 

‘‘ Do you mean one of our young ladies, sir?'’ ^ said that 
princess dowager. The young ladies in the mantle de- 
partment are under my care; we shall be happy to show 
you anything in the way of business, but private friends 
are not for business hours; and this is a place for ladies, 
not for young gentlemen,"' the distinguished duenna said. 


CHAPTER XLVIll. 

THE EXD OF ALL. 

What was he to do? He was stopped short, bewildered, 
excited, quivering with a hundred sensations, by this im- 


•382 


k POOR gentlemans’. 


passable guardian of virtue and proprieties. A young gen- 
tleman is in every personal particular stronger, more effec- 
tive and potent than a middle-aged woman in a shop; yet 
a bolder man than Walter would have been subdued by a 
representative of law and order so uncompromising. He 
looked at her appealingly, with his young eyes full of 
anxiety and trouble. 

I wanted only — a moment — to say a word — he fal- 
tered, as if his fate hung upon her grace. But nothing 
could move her. She stood before him with her black silk 
skirts filling up the passage, in all the correctness of cos- 
tume and demeanor which her position required. 

Young gentleman,^^ she said, ‘^remember that you 
may be doing a great deal of harm by insisting. You can^t 
speak to any one here. If you^ll take my advice you^ll 
join the ladies that seem to be looking for you. That^s 
your party, I believe, sir,^^ she said, with a majestic wave 
of her hand And then poor Walter heard Ally’s voice be- 
hind him. 

Oh, Wat, what are you doing? We thought we had 
lost you, and mother is waiting. Oh, Wat, what were you 
doing there f Who were you talking to? What could you 
want among all the mantles?” Another voice came to the 
rescue while he turned round bewildered. ‘‘I know what 
he was doing. Ally; he was looking for that wrap you were 
talking of. You should have asked me to come and helj) 
you to choose it, Mr. Penton. ” They swept him away be- 
wildered, their voices and soft rustle of movement coming 
round him like the soft compulsion of a running stream. 
The girls flowed forth in pleasant words as they got him 
between them, as irresistible as the duenna, though in a 
different way. Ally thanking him for the intention that 
Mab had attributed to him. Oh,. Wat, how good of you 

to think of that!” 

But, Mr; Penton, you should have asked me to come 
with you to choose it; I would have protected you,” said 
the laughing Mab. He was swept away by them, confused, 
with something singing in his ears, with — not the earth, 
but at least the solid flooring, covered with noiseless car- 
pets, laden with costly wares, giving way, as he felt, under 
his stumbling feet. 

. He accompanied them home as in a dream: fortunately 
their minds were engrossed with subjects of their own, so 


A POOE GENTLEMAN". 


383 


that they did not remark his silence, his preoccupation. 
He sat sunk in his corner of the railway carriage, his face 
half covered with his hand, thinking it all over, contem- 
plating that scene, seeing tliose figures float before him, and 
her look in the mirror over her shoulder. Ah! that look 
in the mirror was a stab to him, keener than any blow. 
For it was not to him that Emmy threw that glance — it 
was to any man, to the first pair of admiring eyes that 
might find out her prettiness, her grace — oh, not to him! 
AY hen she saw who it was she had covered her face and 
fled. She had been ashamed to be discovered. Why should 
she be ashamed to be discovered? There was nothing 
shameful in what she was doing. In the quiet of the great 
shop, among women, no disturbing influences near — among 
the pretty things that suited her, the atmosphere warm and 
soft, the carpets noiseless under her feet. Perhaps he said 
all this to himself to console him for some internal shock it 
gave him to see her there at everybody^’s will, -turning her- 
self into a lay figure that all the vulgar women, the dumpy 
matrons, the heavy girls, might be deceived and think that 
by assuming the same garment they might become as beau- 
tiful as she. AYalter was not aware of this if it V'ere so, 
but all his thoughts, which he had been trying to sever 
from her, went back with a bound. He thought and 
thought, as the lines of the country, all touched with re- 
viving green, flew past the carriage windows, and the jar 
and croak of the railway made conversation difficult, and 
justified his retirement into liimself — seeiug her now in a 
new light, seeing her in perspective, the light all round 
her, her daily work, her home, the diversions she had 
loved. He said to himself that it was a life of duty, thougli 
not one that the vulgar mind recognized as drawn on ele- 
vated lines. How patient she had been, smiling upon those 
whom she had served, putting on one thing after another, 
exhibiting everything at its best to please them! It was all 
curiously mixed up with pain and sharpness, this rapture 
of admiration, and confusion, and longing, and regret, 
which the sight of her had worked in his mind. The smile 
on her lips was a little like the smile with which her mother 
had been represented as charming the public. Emmy had 
her public to charm, too. Oh, if he could but snatch her 
avyay from it all! — carry her off, hide her from all contact 
with the common world! It occurred to him quite irrele- 


384 


A POOPt OKNTLEMAN. 


vantly iu the midst of his thoughts, how it might ‘be if 
Emmy at Penton, or in any other such place, should sud- 
denly encounter some one whom she had served at Snell 
and Margrove’sr This thought came into his mind like an 
arrow fired by an enemy across the tender and eager course 
of his anticipations and resolution. How could she bear 
it? and how should he bear it, to see the stare, the whisper, 
the wonder, the scorn in the looks of some pair of odious, 
envious, spiteful women (women always call forth these 
adjectives under such circumstances). "This arrow went to 
his very heart, and wounded him in the midst of his long- 
ing and purpose, and hot, impatient aspiration. And then 
he seemed to see her with that pretty trick of movement 
settling the cloak upon her shoulders, to show it off to the 
intending purchaser! Oh, Emmy! his Emmy! that she 
should be exposed to that! And yet he said to himself it 
was nothing derogatory — oh, nothing derogatory! — a safe, 
sheltered, noiseless place, among women, among beautiful 
stuffs and things, with no jar of the outside world about! 
If he could but snatch her away from it, carry her away! 

Penton contained his body but not his mind for some 
time after. What could he do? She had rejected him — 
for motives of prudence, poor Emmy! and returned to her 
shop. Why? why? Was he so distasteful to her as that? 
— that she should prefer her shop to him and his ten thou- 
sand pounds? And yet he had not felt himself to be dis- 
tasteful. Even on this unexpected, undreamed-of meeting, 
she had hidden her face and fled, that he might not identify 
her, might not speak to her. Was she, then, so set against 
him? And yet she had not always been set against him. 
Walter did not know how long the time was which passe^ 
like a dream, while he pondered these things, asking him- 
self every morning what he should do? whether he should 
return and try his fortune again ; whether when she knew 
all she would yield to his entreaties and allow him to deliver 
her from that servitude? It was on a Saturday at last that 
the impulse became suddenly uncontrollable. He had been 
thinking over her little holiday, the Saturdays, which she 
had to herself, the little time when she was free, when she 
had gone out with him enjoying the air, even though it was 
winter, and the freedom, though he had not known in what 
bondage her days were spent. He could not contain him- 
self when lie remembered this. He went hurriedly away. 


A POOK GEKTLEMAK. 


385 


not, as he had done on a previous occasion, in hot enthusi- 
asm and rapture, but sadly, perceiving now all he was do- 
ing, and the break he must make, if he were successful, 
between himself and his home— perceiving too the difficul- 
ties that might come after, the habits that were not as his, 
the modes of life which are so hard to efface. Even his 
anticipation of happiness was all mixed with pain. It had 
become to him rather a vision of the happiness of delivering 
her, of placing her in circumstances more fit, surrounding 
her with everything delightful, than of the bliss to himself 
which would come from her companionship. Was he a 
little uncertain of that after all that had come and gone? 
But Walter would never have owned this to himself— only 
it was of her happiness, not of his, that he thought; and 
something wrung his heart as he left Fenton behind, and 
took his way toward the house of Mrs. Sam Crockford with 
a shuddering recollection which he could not subdue. 

He had planned to get there about noon, when Emmy 
would be coming home. She might be tired, she might be 
sad, she might be cheered by the sudden appearance of a 
faithful lover, bringing the means of amusement and variety 
in his hand. They might go to Eichmond, and he would 
take her on the river, as she had said she liked it, though 
in winter that had not been practicable. And he had made 
up his mind to insist, to be masterful, as it was said women 
liked a man to be. He would not accept a denial, he 
thought. He would tell her that he could not endure it, 
that this work of hers must come to an end. He made up 
his mind that neither her sauciness nor her sweetness should 
distract him from his resolution, that this thing must come 
t^'an end. He walked most of the long way from the rail- 
way station to the little -street in which was the mean little 
house where she lived with her mother. How often he had 
trodden that way with his heart beating— how often dis- 
tracted with pain! There w’as more pain than pleasure in 
his bosom now. He did not know how she would receive 
him, but he had made up his mind not to be discouraged 
by any reception she might give him. This time he would 
have his way. His motive was no longer selfish, he said to 
himself. It w^as no longer for him, but for her. 

There was a little commotion in the street, of which he 
took no particular notice as he came up. A carnage with 
a pair of gray horses was coming along with the familiar 

7^2d half. 


386 


A POOE GENTLEMAN. 


jog of a hack carriage which is paid for at so much an 
hour. Walter did not suppose this could have anything to 
say to him, and took no notice, as how should her But 
when he approached the house it became more and more 
evident that something had happened or was happening. 
A group of idlers were standing about a door, from which 
came the sound of voices and laughter, altogether festive 
sounds. Somebody was rejoicing, it was apparent, with 
that not too refined kind of joy — a happiness unrestrained 
by any particular regard for the proprieties that belong to 
such regions. Even this did not rouse W alter. What did 
it matter to him if some one had been married, or christ- 
ened, or was going through any of the joyful incidents of 
life — next door? His mind was full of what she would say, 
of what she would do, of the steps to be taken in order to 
complete her deliverance. It would not be his deliverance. 
It would be his severance from much that had acquired a 
new value in his eyes. But it would be freedom to her; it 
would be, whatever she might say, comparative wealth. 
Why had she so resisted? why, in her position, had she 
scorned his little fortune? It could only be, he thought, 
that he might be hindered from sacrificing so much on his 
side. 

He was deep, deep in thought as he approached. Surely 
it was next door, this marriage, or whatever it was. It 
must be next door. The carriage came leisurely up and 
stopped, the coachman displaying a great wedding favor. 
It was a marriage, then: strange that he should come with 
his mind full of that proposal of his, to which he would 
take no denial, and find a marriage going on next door! 
He smiled to himself at the odd circumstance, but there 
was not verv much pleasure in his smile. There would 
soon be another there — but quiet — that at least he would 
secure — not attended by this ■ noisy revelry, the voices and 
cheers ringing out into the street. Ah, no! but quiet, the 
marriage of two people who would have a great deal to think 
of, to whom happiness would come seriously, not without 
sacrifices, not without — 

But, oh, that sudden shock and pause! what did this 
mean? It was not at the next house, but at Mrs. Sam 
Crockford^s door that the carriage with the two gray horses 
drew up. It was there the idlers were standing grouped 
round to see somebody pass out: the voices came from 


A POOR GENTLEMAN. 


387 


^vithin that well-known narrow entrance. Walter stopped, 
struck dumb, his very breath going, and stood with the rest, 
to see — what he might see. He heard the stir of chairs 
pushed from the table, the chorus of good-byes, and then — 

The open doorw^ay was suddenly filled by the bridal pair, 
the bridegroom coming out first, she a step behind. Wal- 
ter knew the man well enough; he had seen him but once, 
but that seeing had been sufficient. He came out fiushed, 
in his wedding clothes, his hat upon one side of his head, 
his white gloves in his hand. ^^Thank you all; we fil be 
jolly enough, you needn^t fear,^^ he was calling to the well- 
wishers behind. After him Emmy came forward, perhaps 
more gayly apparelled than a bride of higher position 
would have been for her wedding journey, her hat covered 
with flowers and feathers, her dress elaborately trimmed. 
She too was a little flushed, and full of smiles and satisfac- 
♦tion. Walter did not stir, he stood and looked on griml3% 
like a man who had nothing to do with it. It did not seem 
to affect him at all; his heart, which had been beating 
loudly, had calmed in a moment. He stood and looked at 
them as if they were people whom he had never seen before 
— standing silent in the midst of the loungers of the little 
street, a few children and women, a passing errand boy, 
and a man out of work, who stood too with his hands in his 
pockets and gazed in a sullen way, with r sort of envy of 
the people who were well-off and well-to-do. The bride- 
groom had not the same outward deference to his bride 
which might be seen in other circles. He held her arm 
loosely in his and dragged her behind him, turning back 
and shouting farewells to his friends. “ Oh,.weTl be joy- 
ful enough!"^ he cried, taking no heed to her timid steps. 
And perhaps Emmy^s steps could not be described as timid. 
She gave his arm a shake to rouse him from the fervor of 
these good-byes. 

Here, mind what you are doing, Ned, and let^s get on, 
or we shall miss the train, she said. 

Walter stood and gazed stupidly, and took all the little 
drama in. 

And then there ensued the farce at the end, the shower 
of rice, the old shoes thrown after the departing pair. The 
jovial bridegroom threw back several that fell into the car- 
riage, and Emmy laughed and cheered him on. They went 
off in a burst of laughter and gayety. Her quick eye had 


388 A POOE GEKTLEMAK. 

glanced at the spectators on either side of the door. Could 
she have seen him there? She had turned round to her 
mother, who followed them to the door, and whispered 
something as they went away: but that was all. Walter 
stood and watched them drive off; it was all like a scene in 
a theater to him. He did not seem able to make up his 
mind to go away. 

And then suddenly he felt a touch upon his arm. Oh, 
Mr. Penton, is it your Step in — step in, sir, please, and 
let me speak to you; I must say a word to you.’^ 

I can see no need for any words/ ^ he said, dully; but 
partly to get free of her, for her touch was intolerable to 
him, partly because of the want of any impulse in his own 
mind, he followed her into the house, into the parlor, all 
full of wedding favors and finery. The bridal party had 
retired riotously, as was very apparent, to the table in the 
back room. ' 

Oh, Mr. Penton, you have been shamefully treated 
Mrs. Sam Crockford cried. She was herself splendid in a 
new dress, with articles of jewelry hung all over her. She 
touched her eyes lightly with her handkerchief as she 
spoke. Young gentleman, she said, ‘‘though I have 
had to give in to it, don’t think I approved of it. My 
chyild, of course, was my first object, but I had some heart 
for you too. And you behaved so beautiful! How she 
could ever do it, and prefer him to you, is more than I can 
tell!” 

“ Then it was going on all the time?” said Walter, dully. 
He did not seem io have any feeling on the subject, or to 
care: yet he listened with a sort of interest as to the argu- 
ment of the play. 

“ Sir,” said the woman, “ everything is said to be fair in 
love. , If it will be any consolation to you, you have helped 
my chyild to an alliance which — is not greater than her 
deserts — no, it is not greater than her deserts, Mr. Penton, 
as you and I know: but so far as money goes was little to 
be looked 'for. Edward is not perhaps a young man of 
manners as refined as we could wish, but he can give her 
every advantage. He is in business, Mr. Penton. Busi- 
ness has its requirements, which are different to those of 
art. His mother has just died, who was not Emmy’s 
friend. And he is rich. The business,” said Mrs. Sara 


A POOR GENTLEMAK. 


389 


Crockford, sinking her voice, brings in — I canH tell you 
how many thousands a year. 

Then Walter remembered what Emmy had said about 
some one who had as much a year as his whole little fort- 
une consisted of, and added that dully to the story of the 
drama which he was hearing, paying a sort of courteous 
attention without any interest to speak of. Why did not 
she — do this at once? that is what surprises me,^^ he said. 

Mr. Penton, I said all things are fair hi love. I am 
afraid she played you against him to draw him on. She is 
my only child, it is hard for me to blame her. I donT 
know that strictly speaking she is to be blamed. A girl 
has so few opportunities. He proposed a secret marriage, 
but my Emmy has too much pride for that. You were 
always with her, Mr. Penton, after she returned, and he 
was distracted. He thought she was going to marry you. 
I thought so myself at first: but she played her cards very 
well. She played you against him to draw him on.^^ 

Oh, she played me against him to draw him on,^^ said 
Walter. These words kept going through his head while 
Emmy^s mother went on talking at great length, explain- 
ing, defending, blaming her chyild. She might as well 
have said nothing more, for he could not take it in. The 
words seemed to circle round and round him in the air. 
They did not wound him, but gave a sort of wonder — a 
dull surprise. 

‘ ‘ She played me against him to draw him on. He 
went back through flie endless streets to the railway-station, 
walking the whole way, feeling as if that long, long course 
might go on forever, for nights and days, for dreary cen- 
turies; and then the railway, with its whirl of noise and 
motion, completed and confirmed the sense of an endless 
going on. He could not have told how long he had been 
away when he walked up the avenue again in the soft dark- 
ness of the spring night. His dulled mind mixed this ab- 
sence up somehow with the previous one, and, with this 
confusion, brought a curious sense of guilt, and impulse to 
ask pardon. He would arise and go to his father, and say, 
‘^Father, I have sinned. He would kneel down by his 
mother^’s side. He could not understand that he had done 
no harm — that he had only left Penton that day. She 
played me against him to draw him on.'’^ It all seemed so 
simplo — nobody^s fault — not even perhaps Emmy^s — for 


390 


A POOR GENTLEMAiq'. 


girls have so few opportunities, as her mother said. Per- 
haps it was natural, as it was the explanation of all the play 
^ — the mot de Venigme. It seemed a sort of satisfaction to 
have such an ample explanation of it, at the last. 

Just inside the gate he saw something white fluttering 
among the trees, and Mab cried, breathless, Mr. Walter, 
is it you?^^ It was all he could do not to answer her with 
that explanation which somehow seemed so universally ap- 
plicable. She played me off — but he restrained him- 
self, and only said, Yes, it is She put out her hand 
to him in an impulsive, eager way. He had not in fact 
seen her that day before, and Walter took the band thrust 
into his in the dark with a curious sensation of help and 
succor; it was a cool little soft fresh hand, not like that 
large and clammy member which, thank Heaven, he had 
nothing to do with any more. And there was an end of it 
all —there it all ended, in Mab’s little frank hand meeting 
his in the twihght as if she were admitting him to a new 
world. 

Ally was married shortly after, and the marriage was 
very good for the material interests of the house of Pen ton. 
It was a very fine marriage for young Mr. Eochford of 
Heading, but it was also a fine thing for the family in whose 
history he had in future more interest than merely that of 
their man of business. Mab still promises every day that 
Anne will soon follow her sister^s example, and that she 
herself will be the only one left to fulfill the duties of the 
grown-up daughter. Her visit has been prolonged again 
and again, till it has run out into the longest visit that ever 
was known. Will it ever come to an end? Will she ever 
go away again, and set up with a chaperon in the house in 
Mayfair with which she is sometimes threatened by her 
guardians? Who can tell? There will be many people to 
be consulted before it can be decided one way or other. 
But if nobody else^s mind is made up, Mab^s is very distinct 
upon this point, as well as upon most others within her 
range. And she is one of those people who usually ha^e 
their way. 


THE END. 


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ALPHABETICAL LIST. 


302 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The 
Monastery.’’ By Sir Walter 

Scott 

788 Absentee, The, An Irish Story 

By Maria Edgeworth 

82ii Actcs-'s Ward, The. By the au 
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36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 

388 Addie's Husband ; or. Through 
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A 1 tAV Cl Tl rl !• 

127 Adrian Bright." By Mrs’ Caddy 20 
500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris 20 
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413 Afloat and Ashore. By J, Fen- 

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128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

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218 Agnes Sorel. ByG. P. R. James 20 
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274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
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636 Alice Lorraine. B.y R, D. Black- 

more. 1st half.' 20 

836 Alice liOrraine. By R. D. Black- 

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650 Alice; or. The Mysteries. (A Se- 
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97 All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- 
ter Besant 20 

( 1 ^ 


484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. lO 
47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oli- 
phant 20 

2.53 Amazon, The. By Carl Yosmaer 10 
447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

176 An April Day. By Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 10 

403 An English Squire. B3- C. R. 

Coleridge 20 

648 Angel of the Bells, The. Bj- F. 

Du Boisgobey 20 

889 An Inland Vo.vage. By Robert 

Louis Steven.sou. 10 

2G3 An Ishmaelite. Bj" Miss M. E. 

Brad don 20 

154 Annan Water. B\^ Robert Buch- 
anan 20 

200 Au Old Man’s Love. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

750 An Old Story of My Farming 
Da3-s. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
750 An Old Story of My Farming 

Days. Fritz Reuter, 2d half 20 
93 Anthon3’ Trollope’s Autobiog- 

raph3^ 20 

843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

395 Archipelago on Fire, The. B3" 

Jules Verne 10 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 
247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. B3- 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

813 Army Societ3-. Life in a Garri- 
.son 'I'own. Bv- John Strange 

Winter ! 10 

224 Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay- 20 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

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787 At War With Herself. By Char- 
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737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

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760 Aurelian ; or, Rome in the Third 
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730 Autobiof?raphy of Benjamin 
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(Translated from the French 
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First half 

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Second half 

241 Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 

L. B. Walford 

342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 

443 Bachelor of hie Albany, The. .. 
683 Bachelor Vicar of NewTorth, 
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871 Bachelor’s Blunder, A. By W. 

E. Norris 

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Mary Cecil Hay 

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234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 

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Dickens. Second half 

653 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 
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Maiy E. Bryan ...... 

794 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Al- 
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717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- 
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29 Beauty’s Daughters. B}-^ “ The 

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593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 

581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 
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802 Betty’s Visions By Rhoda 
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Between the Heather and the 
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Between Two Loves. By Char- 
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“Dora Thorne’’ 20 

Between Two Sins. By Char- 
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“Dora Thorne” 10 

Betwixt My Love and Me. By 
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Beyond Pardon 20 

Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 
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Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

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“Dora Thorne” 20 

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Cboper 20 

Bride from the Sea, A. By 
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of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Bride of Lammermoor, The. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

Bride of Monte- Cristo, The. A 
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Bridge of Love, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Britta. By George Temple 10 

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Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

By Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

Gibbon 20 

By the Gate of the Sea. By D, 
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Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
Camiola: A Girl With a Fortune. 

Bj^ Justin McCarthy 30 

Canon’s Ward, The. By James 
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429 

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299 

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602 

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149 Captain’s Daughter, The. From 


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555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant — 20 
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Back” 20 

502 Carriston's Gift. By Hugh 
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Back” 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 
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770 Castle of Otranto, The. By 

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746 Cavalry Life; or. Sketches and 
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By J. S. Winter 20 

419 Chainbearer, The; or. The Lit- 
tlepage Blaniiscripts. By J. 

Feiiimore Cooper 20 

783 Chantry House. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

790 Chaplet of Pearls, The; or, The 
White and Black Ribaumonr. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
790 Chaplet of Pearls, The; or. The 
Wliite and Black Ribaumont. 


Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 


Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

Fir.'^t half 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

Second half.' 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 
quel to “ Birds of Prey,”) By 

Miss M. E. Braddon... 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson '. 10 

588 Cherry. By the author of “A 

Great Mistake” 10 

713 “ Cherry Ripe.” By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

By Lord Byron 10 

882 Children of Gibeon. By Walter 

B^sant 20 

676 Child’s History of England, A. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. Far- 
jeon 10 

631 Christo well. By R. D. Blackmore 20 
507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

and Other Stories. By Sir 
Walter Seott 10 

632 Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

33 Clique of Gold, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 10 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

499 Cloven Foot, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

Lucas Malet 20 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower. By 
Rhoda Broughton 20 


221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

523 Consequences of a Duel. The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

547 Coquette’s Conquest, A. Bv 

Basil 20 

104 Coral Pin, The. . By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. 1st half 20 

104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. 2d half 20 

598 Corinua. By “Rita” 10 

262 Count of Monte-Cristo. The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part I 20 
262 Count of Monte-Cristo. The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part II 20 


687 Country Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

590 Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

By F. W. Robinson 20 

787 Court Royal. A Story of Cross 
Currents. B}^ S. Baring-Gould 20 
258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford .... 20 
649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

630 Ciadock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. Bj’ R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 20 

108 Cricket on the Hearth, The. 

By Charles Dickens 10 

376 Crime of Christmas Day, The. 

By tlie author of “ My Ducats 

and My Daughter ” 10 

706 Crimson Stain, A. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

629 Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. First half 20 

851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 
Boisgobey. Second half 20 


504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. By 
John Coleman. Illustrated. 10 
544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 
Darnel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don 10 

826 Cynic Fortune. By D. Christie 
Murray 2Q 


446 Dame Durden. By “Rita”... 20 
34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. First half. . 20 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. Second half 20 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conw^a.v 10 
609 Dark House, The: A Knot Un- 
raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 
81 Daughter of Heth, A. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

251 Daughter of the Stars, The, and 
Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called 

Back ” 10 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfleld. By Charles 
Dickens. Vol. II 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition. 


627 Days of My Life. The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

805 Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte 
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Thorne” 20 

374 Dead Man’s Secret, The ; or, The 
Adventures of a Medical Stu- 


dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon. . 20 
567 Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

286 Deldee ; or, The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

744 Diana Carew; or, For a Wom- 
an's Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
350 Diana of the Crossways. Bj- 

George Meredith 10 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part 1 20 

478 Diavola: or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part II. 20 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen. By Jules Verne 20 

486 Dick's Sweetheart. By “The 

Duchess ” 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
drew Lang 10 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

Ed wards 20 

108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

629 Doctor’s Wife, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon " . . . , 20 

721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 20 
107 Dombe}’- and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 
Donald 20 


671 Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”.. 10 
779 Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 
51 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

284 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

820 Doris’s Fortune. By Florence 

Warden 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

665 Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

585 Drawn Game, A. By Basil 20 

151 Ducie Diamonds, The. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
er’s Secret. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

855 Dynamiter, The. By Robert 
Louis Stevenson and Fanny 
Van de Grift Stevenson 20 


465 Earl’s Atonement, The. By 


Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

AVood 20 

827 Eflfie Ogilvie. By Mrs, Oliphant 20 
685 England under Gladstone. 1880 
—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 20 

521 Entangled. By E. Fairfax 

Byrrne 20 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmoi'e 20 

118 Eric Dering, “The Duchess” 10 
96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- 

lantyne h) 

90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton .* 20 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By 
author of “ Petite's Romance 20 
162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton 20 

764 Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

62 Executor, The, By Mrs. Alex- 
ander *. 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal By Helen I>. 
Mathens 10 


319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 
877 Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne .. 20 

261 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 
son 20 

417 Fair Maid of Perth, The ; or, 

St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

626 Fair Mystery, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

TJiorne ” 20 

727 P air Women. By Mrs. Forre.^ter 20 
30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

819 Fallen Idol, A. By F. Anstey. . . 20 
543 Family Affair, A. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “ Called 

Back” 20 

338 Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- 
rah Douduey 10 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

798 Fashion of this World, The. By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 20 

246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” ... . 10 

299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

548 Fatal Marriage, A. By Miss 
M. E. Braddon....... W 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot. 

.M2 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gabo- 

riau 

675 Finger of Fate, The. Bj’ Cap- 
tain Mayne Reid 

95 Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. 

Ballant>'ne 

674 First Person Singular. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 

199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 

579 Flower of Doom, The, and 
Other Stories. By M. Beiiiam- 

Ed wards 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love. By Charlotte M. 
Bi-aeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

156 “ Fora Dream's Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin . 

173 Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 
608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

Allen 

586 “ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley 

171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “The 

Duchess ” 

468 Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 
Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley. 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 
438 Found Out. By Helen B. 

Mathers 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes 
From the Life of a Piivate 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 
805 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 

805 Freres,. The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 

226 Friendship. By “Ouida” 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 
Charlotte M. Bi aenie, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 

848 From Post to Finish. A Racing 
Romance. By Hawley Smart 


285 Gambler’s Wife, The 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 
Trader. By R. M. BaHantyne 
549 George Caulfield’s Journey. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 

865 George Christy; or, Tlie Fort- 
unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
Pastor ‘. 


Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price . . 20 
Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

Giant's Robe, The. By F. Ainstey 20 
Gihled Sin, A. By Cliariotte 
M. Braeme,. author of " Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

Girl at the Gate, The. By 

Wilkie Collins 10 

Girls of Feversham, The. By 

Florence Manyat 20 

Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards — 20 

Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 
ter Besant 10 

Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin 10 

Godfrey Ilelstone. By Georgi- 

ana M. C'laik 20 

Golden Calf, Tlie. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Golden Dawn. A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

Golden Flood, The, By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior. , 10 
“ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 
Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne'’. 10 

Golden Lion of Granpere, The, 

By Anthony Trollope 20 

“Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle ‘. 20 

Good-Natured Man, The. By 

Oliver Gold.smith 10 

Greatest Heiress in England, 

The. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Great Expectations. By Charles 

Dickens,. 20 

Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 
Seven Checks. By R. E. Fran- 
cillon Id 

Great Mistake, A. By the author 

of “Cherry” 2d 

Great Treason, A. By Mary 

Hoppus. 3() 

Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 1st half 2d 
Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black 2U 

Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealous}’. 

By Charles Reade 20 

Griselda. By the author of “ A 
Woman’s Love-Story” 20 

Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Siine ]u 

Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

Handy Andy By Samuel Lover 2J 
Hard Times. By Chas. Dickens 10 


331 

20 208 

20 

613 

20 

225 

20 300 

10 

508 

20 

867 

10 

644 

10 140 

647 

20 450 

20 153 

20 306 

20 

656 

10 

10 172 

292 

20 

20 667 

20 768 

10 356 

801 

10 

20 710 

10 439 

135 

20 

20 244 

20 170 

20 

751 

10 751 

20 138 

20 231 

677 

20 

20 597 

10 668 

663 

20 84 

(5) 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAEY. — Pocket Edition, 


622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By 461 

Anthony Trollope 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 378 

Lever 20 

669 Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 379 

873 Harvest of 'Wild Oats, A. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

785 Haunted Chamber, The. By 800 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 10 800 

633 Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 20 

385 Headsman, The; or. The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons. By J. 552 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

811 Head Station, The. By Mrs. , 600 

Campbell-Praed ; . . ^ 

672 Healey. By Jessie Fothergill. 20 703 
167 Heart and Science. By Wiikie 

Collins 20 248 

444 Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence jMarryat 20 351 

891 Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 874 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 481 
Deuce. By David Christie 

Murray 20 754 

741 Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or. 

The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 748 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

823 Heir of the Ages, The. By James 198 

Payn 20 

689 Heir Presumptive, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 389 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 188 

Wood 10 807 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi- 715 

neering. By Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 762 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. Fii st half 20 303 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. Second half 20 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 796 

Tvtler 10 

814 Heritage of Langdale, The. By 304 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 404 

576 Her Martyrdom. By Ctiarlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 324 

Thorne ” 20 

19 HerlMother’sSin. By Charlotte 672 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 672 

824 Her Own Doing, W. E. Norris 10 

196 Hidden Perils. Maiy Cecil Hay 10 604 

bl8 Hidden Sin, The. A Novel 20 

297 Her Marriage Vow; or, Hilary’s 

Folly. Charlotte M. Braeme, 604 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
294 Hilda. By Charlotte M.Braeme, 

aullior of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 577 
658 History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 10 638 

165 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By William M. Thackeray. . . 20 | 


His Wedded Wife. By author 

of “ A Fatal Dower ” 20 

Homeward Bound; or, The 
Chase. By J. F. Cooper .... 20 
Home as Found. (Sequel to 
“Homeward Bound.”) ByJ. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
Hopes and Fears; or, Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

Houp-La, By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

House Divided Against Itself, 

A. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 10 

House on the Moor, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

House Party, A. By “ Ouida ”. 10 
House That Jack Built, The. 

By Alisp-n 10 

How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried. By a (Graduate in the 

University of Matrimony 20 

Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

Husband’s Story, A lO 

Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas 10 

Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 
I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

Impressions of Theophrastus 

Such. By George Eliot 10 

Ingledew House." By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

In a Grass Country. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron . . 20 

In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” , 10 

In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

InMaremma. By “Ouida.” 1st 

half 20 

In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By BIrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 20 

Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By BIrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

In Peril and Privation. By 

James Payn 10 

In Quarters with the 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoons, By 
J. S. Winter 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. —Pocket EdiUon. 


759 In Shallow Watei*s. By Annie 

Armitt 

39 Tn Silk Attire. By William Black 
738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall 

682 In the Middle Watch. By W, 

Clai’k Russell 

452 In the West Couutrie. By May 

Orominelin 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 
ilton Aid6 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 

233 “ I Say No;” or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. B3' Wilkie Col- 
lins.. 

235 “ It is Never Too Late to Mend.” 

By Charles Reade 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. 


534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet — 
752 Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

By Juliana Horatio Ewings. . . 
41G Jack Tier ; or, The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper. 

743 Jack’s Courtship. B}’ W. Clark 

Rus.sell. 1st half 

743 Jack's Courtship. .ByW. Clark 

Ru.'^sell. 2d half 

519 Janies Gordon's Wife, A Novel 
15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bront6 
728 Janet’s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 

767 Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. . 

357 John. By Mrs. Oliphant 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 

289 John Bull's Neighbor in Her 
True liight. By a “Brutal 

Saxon ” 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 

694 John Maidmeut, By Julian 

Sturgis 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 

619 Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 
Home Ford. By May Crom- 

melin 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 
Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black 

332 Judith Wynne. By author of 

“ Lady Lovelace ” 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 

561 Just As I Am ; or, A Living Lie. 
By Miss M. E. Braddon 


832 Kidnapped. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 


Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 
Red House. By Mary E. 

Bryan. First half 20 

Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 
Red House. 63^ Mary E. 

Bryan. Second half 20 

Kilmeti}*. B3’ William Black. . 20 
King Arthur. Not a Love Stor3^ 

By Miss Mulock 20 

King Solomon's Mines. By H. 
Rider Haggard 20 


Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg 
Castle. B.y George Taylor. . . 20 

Lady Branksmere. . By “The 


Duchess ” 20 

Lady Audlev’s Secret. By Miss 
M. E. Braddon 20 


Lady" Clare; or. The Master of 
the Forges From the French 

of Georges Ohnet t 

Lady" Darner's Secret. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


“Dora Thorne” 2C 

Lady" Gay’s Pride; or. The Mi- 
ser’s Treasure. Bv Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller..'. 20 

Lady" Gwendoline’s Dream. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne”.. 10 

Lady- Lovelace. By" the author 

of “Judith Wynne” 20 

Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas .' 2C 

Lady' of T^yons, The. Founded 
on the Play" of that title by" 

Lord lA'tton 10 

Lady-’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E.' Braddon , 20 

Lady Valworth's Diamonds. By" 

“ The Duchess ” 20 

Lady With the Rubies, The. By- 

E. Marlitt 20 

Lancaster's Choice. By Blrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller '.. 20 

Lancelot W^ard, M.P. By George 

Temple 10 

Land Leaguers, The. By" An- 
thony" Trollope 20 

Last Days at Apswich 10 

Last Day.s of Pompeii, The. By 
Bulwer Lytton 20 


Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 1st half.. 20 
Last of the BaVons, The. By" Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 
Last of the Mohicans, The. By- 


J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 
Conspiracy". By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

Lazarus in London. By" F. W^. 

Robinson 20 

Leah : A W’^oman of Fashion. 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 


Led Astray; or, “La Petite 
Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet, 10 


857 

20 

20 

857 

20 

20 126 

80^ 

20 

753 

10 

435 

20 

20 

783 

20 

20 35 

219 

20 

10 469 

20 

268 

20 

20 305 

20 

20 

506 

10 

20 155 

10 161 

20 

20 

497 

10, 

875 

10' a52 

20 269 

10 599 

20 32 

20 684 

40 

20 

130 

20 130 

60 

20 

. 267 

20 

20 

455 

20 

839 

386 

20 

C7) 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY. -Pocket Edition. 


353 LeyenrI of J\Iontrose, A. Bj’ Sir 

Waiter Scott 20 

101 LeiJii: or, The Siege of Grenada. 

By I'luhvei; Lytlon 10 

885 LeK Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

' : 20 

885 Les Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

Part II 20 

885 I.es Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

Partin .. 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
road of Life. By Frank E. 

Smedley 20 

437 Life and Adventiii*es of Martin 
('liuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- ' 

_ens. First lial'f 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By diaries Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

77 1 Life and Travels of Mungo 

Park, Tlie 10 

608 Life’s Atonement, A. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

<17 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “Rita”. 20 

3 b fiike tio Otiier Love. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

4o;> Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Suunyside. By BIrs. 

Oliphant 1 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 
of Boston. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

04 Little Do n it. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second half 20 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of W Om- 
an’s Love. By BIrs. Sumner 

Hayden 20 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 
179 Little Biake-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- 

pliant 10 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Blarryat 10 

111 Little School-master Blark, The. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

878 Little Tu'penny. By S. Bai ing- 

Gould 10 

804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 20 
797 Look Before You Leap. By 

Mrs Alexander 20 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 
lotte Bl. Braeme, autiior of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

749 Loid Vanecourfs Daughter. By 

Blabel Collins 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. First half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. Second half 20 

473 Lost Son, A. By Blary Liuskill. 10 

(8^ 


354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 


^ Brougham .. 20 

453 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

742 Love and Life. By Cliariotte 

BI. Yonge 20 

273 Love and Blirage : oi*, The Wait- 
ing on an Island. By M. 

Be tham-Ed wards !..... 10 


232 Love and Bloney ; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 10 
146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 


Stories. By Walter Besant 

and James Rice lo 

306 Love for a Day. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” lo 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Blrs! 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeori 20 
175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

757 Love’s Blarti'r. By Laurence 

Alma 'Fadema. . . .' lo 

291 Love’s .Wai'fare. By Charlotte 
BI. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. By 

“The Duchess” 10 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Blrs. J. H. Needed 20 

589 Lucr of the Darrells, The. By 

James Pay n 20 

370 Lucy Orof ton. By Blrs. Oliphant 10 


44 Macleod of Dare. Wm. Black. 20 
526 Bladame De Presnel. By E. 

Frances Poy liter 20 

345 Bladam. By Mrs. Oliphant.... 20 
78 Bladcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 
510 Blad Love, A. By the author of 

“Lover and Lord” 10 

69 Madolin's Lover. By Charlotte 
BI. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

341 Bladolin Rivers; or. The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminaiy. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

377 Blagdalen Hepburn : A Story of 
the Scottish Reformation. By 

Blrs. Oliphant 20 

449 Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- 
bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 10 
64 Blaideu Fair, A. C'harles Gibbon 10 
121 Blaid of Athens. By Justin 

BIcCarthv 20 

633 Blaid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 20 

633 Blaid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 20 

229 Blaid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Blrs. Alexander 10 

803 Blajor Frank. By A. L. G. Bos- 
boom-Toussaint 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBBART.— Pocket Edition. 


702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. First half 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. Second half 20 

277 Man of His Word, A. By W. 

E. Norris 10 

688 Man of Honor, A. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated. 10 
217 Man She Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 20 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

755 Margery Daw. A Novel ....... 20 

451 MarkefHarborongh, and Inside 

the Bar. G. J. Whyte-Melville 20 
773 Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew 

Lang 10 

331 Marriage of Convenience, A. 

By Harriett Jay 10 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

INfiss M. E. Braddon 20 

615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

646 Master of the Mine, The. B3'' 

Robert Buchanan 20 

825 iNIaster Passion, The.’ By Flor- 
ence 3Iarryat 20 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 10 


578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part II 10 
578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 


Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 
398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

723 Manleverer’s Millions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

330 May Blossom : or, Betwe<»n Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

791 Mayor of Caster bridge, The. By 

Thomas Hardy 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

771 Mental Struggle, A. By “The 

Duchess ” 20 

424 ^Mercedes of Castile; or. The 
Voyage to Cathay. By J. Fen- 
imore Cooper “ 20 

406 Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam- 
uel Warren 10 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First half 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 20 

187 Midnight Sun, The. ByFredrika 

Bremer 10 

763 Midshipman, The, Marmaduke 
INlerry. Wm, H. G. Kingston. 20 
729 Mignon. By Blrs. Forrester. . 20 
492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 
876 Mignon’s Secret. John Strange 

Winter 10 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 


692 Mikado, The. and other Comic 
Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 


Sullivan 20 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 

Fen i more Cooper 20 

3 Mill on the Floss, The. By 

George Eliot 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F.W. Robinson 20 

182 Millionaire, The 20 

205 Minister’s Wife, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 
369 MissBretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband. By 

Florence Mariyat 20 

245 Miss Tomm3^ By Miss Mulock 10 
315 Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

618 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ^ 
mas. 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

890 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Blarga- 

ret Vele.y 10 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

887 Modern Telemaebus, A. Bv- 

Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

881 Mohawks. Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
2 Molly Bawn. “ The Duchess ” 20 
159 Moment of Madness, A, and 
Other Stories. B\^ Florence 

Marryat 10 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 20 

201 Monastery, The. B.y Sir Walter 

Scott. . . 20 

119 Monica. By “The Duchess”. . 10 
431 Monikius, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau Vol, 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. 11 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

102 Moonstone, The. Wilkie Collins 20 
303' More Bitter than Death. B3' 
Charlotte I\I. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 10 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 

495 Mount Royal. B}’’ Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. ByM. 

G. Wight wick 10 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- 
ray 20 

25 Mrs.(ieoffrey. “ The Duchess ” 20 


THE SEASIDE LlBBABY.---PocJcet Edition. 


606 Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

Craik 20 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens. . . 10 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

ByL. B. Walford 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

596 My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The Crime 

of Christmas Day” 20 

848 My Friend Jim. By W. E. Norris 10 
405 M 3 " Friends and I. Edited b}" 

Julian Sturgis 10 

726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester.. 20 
799 My Lady Green Sleeves. By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 

623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 
Collins 10 

724 My Loid and My Lady. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

863 “My Own Child.” By Florence 

Mai-ryat 20 

504 My Poor Wife. By the author 

of “ Addie's Husband ” 10 

433 M.y Sister Kate. By Charlotte 
iVI. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Parti.. 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 20 

366 Mysterious Hunter, The; or. 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

662 Mystery of AJlan Grale, The. By 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

454 Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. 

By Chas. Dickens 20 

514 Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

43 Mystery of Orcival, The. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

255 Mystery, The. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood ’.20 

725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Doctor Edith Romney ”. 20 
666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 


574 Nabob, The: A Story of Paris- 
ian Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughtoh . 20 
509 Nell Hafifenden. By Tighe Hop- 
kins 20 

181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 
Buchanan 


856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 
ert Louis Stevenson 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

1 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

II 20 

52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins .* 10 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 20 
864 “ No Intentions.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 
290 Nora’s Love Test. B.y Maty 

Cecil Hay '. 20 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 

812 No Saint. B.y Adeline Sergeant 20 
168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey. . . 20 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton ? 20 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 

766 No. XIII. ; or. The Story of the 

Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 
640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 


M, Yonge 20 


425 Oak-Openings, The; or, The 
Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

211 Octoroon, The. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 
ries. By Florence Marryat.. 10 
10 Old Curiosity Shop, The. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant ^ 10 

858 Old Ma’ra’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

72 Old Myddel ton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Haj'- 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
41 Oliver Twist, B.y Chas. Dickens 20 

605 Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciet.v. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

883 Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

B. Harwood 20 

342 One New Year’s Eve. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

840 One Thing Needful; or. The 
Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby 20 

498 Only a Clod. Bj^ Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 


10 
\ 10 ) 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

655 Open Door, The. By Mrs. Oli* 

pliant 10 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 
1.2 Other People's Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

639 Othmar. Bv -‘Ouida” 20 

859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl. By Vernon Lee 20 

838 Onglit We to Visit Her? By 

Mrs. Annie Edw'ards 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 

by Justin H. McCarthy, M.F. 10 
870 Out of His Reckoning. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 


680 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- 
as Hardy 20 

687 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Fenn 20 

238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 

822 Passion Flower, A. A Novel... 20 

517 Passive Crime, A, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and 


Miser. IVIrs. E. Lynn Linton. 20 


309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Buhver 

Lvtton, Bart 20 

571 Paul Carew's Story. By Alice 

Com V ns Carr 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conway, author of 

“Called Back” 10 

449 Peei-ess and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

613 Percv and the Prophet. By 

Wilkie Collins 10 

776 P6re Goriot. By H. De Balzac 20 
314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill ... 20 
568 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 10 

868 Petronel. By Florence Marryat 20 
392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

326 Phan tastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women, By 

George Macdonald 10 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

845 Philip Earnscliffe; or, The Mor- 
als of May Fair. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 20 

836 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

669 Philosophy of Whist, The. By 
William Pole 20 


16 Phyllis. By “ The Duchess ” . . 20 
372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 
thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 
537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 
24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. II 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 
Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 

206 Picture, The, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Read e. .. 10 
264 Pi6douche, a French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 10 
318 Pioneers, The ; or. The Sources 
of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fenirnore Cooper 20 

393 Pirate, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 
850 Playwright’s Daughter, A._ By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards *. 10 

818 Pluck. By John Strange Winter 10 
869 Poison of Asps, The. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

836 Point of Honor, A. By Mrs. An- 
nie Edwards 20 

329 Polish Jew', The. (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

831 Pomegranate Seed. By the au- 
thor of “The Two Miss Flem- 
ings,” etc 20 

325 Portent, The. B j George Mac- 
donald 10 

6 Portia, By “The Duchess ”... 20 
655 Portrait, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
558 Poverty Corner. By G. Manville 

Fenn 20 

310 Prairie, The. By J. Fenirnore 

Cooper 20 

422 Precaution, By J. Fenirnore 

Cooper 20 

828 Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, 

The. By Mabel Collins 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 
Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 


531 Prime Minister, The. An- 
thony Trollope. First Half. . 20 
531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 


thony Trollope. Second Half 20 
624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun 10 

249 “Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

556 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Wai den 20 

859 Prince of the 100 Soups, The. 

Edited by Vernon Lee 20 

704 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 
son 10 


THE SEASIDE L] BRADY, — Rocket Edition, 


355 Princess Dagomar of Poland, 

The. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 
228 Princess Napraxine. “Ouida” 20 
23 Pi'incess of Thule, A. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

88 Privateersman, The. By Cap- 
tain Marry at 20 

321 Prodigals, The: And Their In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 
144 Promises of Marriage. By Emile 

Gaborian '. 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 
516 Put Asunder; or, Lady Castle- 
maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 
Charles Reade 20 


68 Queen Amongst Women, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

591 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 


20 

2C 


20 


20 


041 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Troll- 
ope 20 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 
tie Murray 20 

433 Rainy June. A. By “ Ouida ”. . 10 
700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. First half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. Second half 20 

815 Ralph W ilton’s Weird. By Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

780 Rare Pale Margaret. By the au- 
thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 
327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 
tiie German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 
768 Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

381 Red Cardinal, The. B}’^ Frances 

Elliot 10 

73 Redeemed by Love. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

89 Red Eric, The. By R. M. Ballan- 

tyne 10 

463 Redgauntlet. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

580 Red Route, The. By William 

Si me 20 

261 Red Rover, The. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
421 Redskins, The; or. Indian and 
Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

Giy 


427 Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P.. 
The. Formerly known as 
“Tommy Upmore.” B}" R. 

D. Blackmore 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 

375 Ride to Kliiva, A. By Captain 
Fred Burnaby, of the Royal 

Horse Guards 

816 Rogues and Vagabonds. By 
George R. Sims, author of 

“ ’Ostler Joe ” 

396 Robert Ord's Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 
Charlotte ]\I. Braeme, author 

ot “Dora Thorne” 10 

66 Romance of a Poor Young Man, 

The. By Octave Feuillet 10 

139 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid, The. By Thomas Hardy 10 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Francil- 

lon. 20 

664 Rory O’More. By Samuel Lover 20 
193 Rosary Folk, The. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

670 Rose and the Ring, The. By 
W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated 10 
119 Rose Distill’d, A. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 
296 Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duchess ” 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

566 Royal Highlanders, The; or, 
The Black Watch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

jRIelville 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 2<) 

457 Russians at the Gates of Herat, 
The. By Charles Marvin. ... 10 


10 

10 


616 Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

223 Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
795 Sam’s Sweetheart. By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 
]\Ianuscripts. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half, 20 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 
Jane Porter. 2d half 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY .-Pocksi Edition. 


699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half ... 20 
699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half — 20 
441 Sea Change, A. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

82 Sealed Lips. F. Du Boisgobey. 20 
4^ Sea Lions, The; or, The Lost 

Sealers. By J. F. Cooper. . . 20 
85 Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark 
Russell 20 

490 Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- - 

ander... 20 

191 Second Thoughts. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

781 Secret Dispatch, The. By James 

Grant 10 

810 Secret of Her Life, The. By Ed- 
ward Jenkins — 20 

387 Secret of the Cliffs, The. By 
Charlotte French 20 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 
651 “ Self or Bearer.” By Walter 

Besant 10 

474 Serapis. By George Ebers 20 

792 Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

548 Shadow in the Corner, The. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

445 Shadow of a Crime, The. By 

Hall Caine 20 

293 Shadow of a Sin. The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

18 Shandon Bells. By Wm. Black 20 
141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

Thomas 10 

520 She's All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

801 She Stoops to Conquer. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 10 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront6. 20 

239 Signa. By Ouida ” 20 

707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 
Raveloe. By George Eliot. . . 10 
539 Silvermead. By Jean Middle- 

mas 20 

681 Singer’s Story, A. By May 

Laffan 10 

252 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita ” 10 
283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss 

M.E. Braddon 20 

643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- 
on, Gent, The. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. By Charles Dick- 
ens 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and other 
Stories. By Hugli Conwa}^ 
author of “Colled Back”... iO 

491 Society in London. By a For- 

. eign Resident... 10 


505 Society of London, The. By 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. By the au- 
thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C. 

J. Eiloart 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 
194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By Alison 10 

880 Son of His Father, The. 1^7 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

368 Southern Star, The ; or. The Dia- 
mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 
63 Spy, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

281 Squire’s Legacy, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

817 Stabbed in the Dark. By Mrs. 

E. L 3 mn Linton 10 

158 Starling, The. By Norman 

Macleod, D.D 10 

436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

802 Stern Chase, A. By Mrs.Cashel- 

Hoey 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards, 1st half 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 2d half 20 

145 “Storm-Beaten:” God and The 
Man. Bj" Robert Buchanan. 20 
673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

610 Story of Dorothy Grape, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

53 Story of Ida, The. By Francesca 10 
50 Strange Adventures of a Phae- 
ton, The. By William Black. 20 


756 Strange Adventures of Captain 


Dangerous, The. By George 

Augustus Sala 20 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. H 5 "de. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

83 Strange Story, A. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

502 Strange Voyage, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

511 Sti-ange World, A. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

550 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 10 
467 Struggle fora Ring, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thoi ne ” 20 

71 Struggle for Fame, A. By^ Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 20 

222 Sun-Maid, The. By Miss Grant 20 
21 Sunrise : A Story of These Times 

By Wm. Black 20 

250 Sunshine and Roses ; or, Diana’s 
Discipline. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

277 Surgeon’s Daughters, The. 

Mrs. Henry Wood 10 

363 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 
Sir Walter Scott 1 % 


( 13 ) 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards , 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess ” 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 
Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 


559 Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 

117 Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. 

By William H. G. Kingston.. 
77 Tale of Two Cities, A. By 

Cliarles Dickens 

343 Talk of the Town, The. By 

James Payn 

213 Terrible Temptation, A. By 

696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 
Other Stories. By “ The 

Duchess” 

855 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris 

48 Thicker Thau Water. By James 

Payn ; 

184 Thiriby Hall. By W. E. Norris 
148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 
By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne” 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 

775 Three Clerks, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 
55 Three Guardsmen, The. By 

Alexander Dumas 

382 Three Sisters; or. Sketches of 
a Highly Original Family. 
By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 
789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 
By Lewis Carroll. With fifty 
iliustrations by John Tenniel. 
471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 

833 Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

Verne. First half 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 
485 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclaren 

Cobban 

503 Tinted Venus, The. By F. Anstey 
120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 
Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 
243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 
Charles Lever. First half... 
243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 
Charles Lever. Second half. 
557 To the Bitter End. Bj’^ Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

879 Touchstone of Peril, The. By 

R. E. Forrest 

888 Treasure Island. Robert Louis 
Stevenson 


True Magdalen, A. By Char- 


“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 20 

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ander Dumas 20 

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Tighe Hopkins 20 

Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 
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Cooper 20 

Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

Two Miss Flemings, The. By au- 
thor of “What’s His Offence?” 20 
Two Oi*phans, The. By' D’En- 

nery 10 

Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By' Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

Two Years Before the Mast. 

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Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 


Ugly Barrington. By “ The 

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Uncle Jack. B.v Walter Besant 10 
Uncle Jack. By' Walter Besant 1® 
Uncommercial ' Traveler, The. 

B.y Charles Dickens 20 

Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge. 20 
“Us.” An Old-fashioned Stoiy. 

By Mrs. Moles worth 10 

Under a Shadow. By' Char- 
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Cruise of the “ Destrpyer.” 

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Under Which King? By Comp- 
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Unfairly Won. By Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

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Unholy Wish, The. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

Until the Day' Breaks. By 
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Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 10 


853 

20 

10 346 

100 

20 

75 

714 

20 

349 

20 

20 307 

20 

784 

20 

242 

20 

563 

20 

311 

10 407 

10 

20 862 

20 

137 

541 

10 152 

10 174 

654 

20 

20 460 

20 

852 

10 

276 

20 110 

4 

20 340 

10 718 

20 

634 

10 

10 508 

20 735 

20 

20 837 

20 482 

691 

20 

189 

10 

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426 Venus's Doves. By Ida Ash- 
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891 Vera Nevill; or, Poor Wisdom’s 
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Cameron 20 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

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716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

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545 VidaV Story. By author of 

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( 15 ) 


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637 What’s His Offence? A Novel. 2< 

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of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

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A 1 n 

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358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 
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809 Witness My Hand. By the au- 
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Tryst ” 10 

98 Woman-Hater, A. By Charles 

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705 Woman I Loved, The, and the 
Woman Who Loved IMe. By 
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701 Woman in White, The. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 
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295 Woman’s War, A. B.y Char- 
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858 Old :\la’m’selle’s Secret. By E 

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859 Ottiiie: An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl. By Vernon Lee. The 
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860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 

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880 TlieSou of His Father. By Mrs. 

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881 Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- 

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882 Cliildren of Gibeon. Bv Walter 

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883 Once Again. By Mrs. For- 

ir0st0i* ••••*«••••• 20 

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886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and 

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887 A Modern Telemachus. By 

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888 Ti easure Island. Robert Louis 

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889 An Inland Voyage. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 10 

890 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 

mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

891 VeraNevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 

Chance. By Mrs. H. Ix)vett 
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892 That Winter Night; or, Love's 

Victory. Robert Buchanan. 10 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. First half .20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. Second lialf 2o 

894 Doctor Cupid. By Rhoda 

Broughton .20 

895 A Star and a Heart. By Flor- 

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896 The Guilty River. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

897 Ange. By Florence Marryat. . . 20 

898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Julia 

and Her Romeo, by David 
Christie Murray. Romeo and 
Juliet: A Tale of Two Young 
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899 A Little Stepson. By Florence 

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900 By Woman’s Wit. By Mrs. Al- 

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902 A Poor Gentleman. By Mrs, 

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904 The Holy Rose. By Walter Be- 
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906 The World Went Very Well 

Then. By Walter Besant 20 

907 The Bright Star of Life. By B. 

L. Farjeon 20 

909 The Nine of Hearts. By B. L. 

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910 She: A History of Adventure. 

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THE CELEBRATED 


They are nsedl 
in Conservalo-j 
ries. Schools andj 
Seminaries, onac-1 
count of their su-1 
perior tone a n d ^ 
unequaled dura-J 
bility. ; 

The SOHMEB 
Piano is a specia 
favorite with the 
leading musiciani? 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER. <fe CO., Manufacturers. No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exnibi* 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


THE 


“ShiirtUnii Limited” 


TO 


St. Paul and Minneapolis. 



THE 


“Shore Line Limited’’ 


TO 


L Milwaukee and Waukesha. 


IT TRAVERSES THE MOST DESIRABLE PORTIONS OF 


ILLINOIS, IOWA, NEBRASKA, WISCONSIN, MINNESOTA, DAKOTA,’ 
WYOMING AND NORTHERN MICHIGAN. ’ 


^THE • POPULAR • SHORT • LINEc 

BETWEEN 

CHICAGO, MILWAUKEE, MADISON, ST. PAUL, MINNEAPOLIS, 
OMAHA, COUNCIL BLUFFS, DENVER, SAN FRANCISCO, 

PORTLAND, OREGON, 

AND ADD POINTS IN THE WEST AND NORTHWEST. 


PALACE SLEEPING CARS, PALATIAL DINING CARS 

AND SUPERB DAY COACHES ON THROUGH TRAINS. 

Close Connections in Union Depots with Branch and Connecting Lines; 

ALL AGENTS SELL TICKETS VIA THE NORTH-WESTERN. 


Kew York Office, 409 Broadway. 
Boston Office, 5 State Street. 

I lllnneapolls Office, 13 Nicollet Honse. 



R. S. 


Chicago Office, 62 Clark St. 
Omaha Office, 1411 Farnam St. 
St. Paul Office, lo9 E. Third St. 


DenYcr Office, 8 Windsor Hotel I’dock. 

San Francisco Office, 2 New Montgomery St 
Hilwaukee Office, 102 Wisconsin Street. t 


Hair, General Passenger Agent, CHICAGO, ILL. 


4 


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